


Hamartia

by tomlinvelvet



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alpha Harry, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Post-War, Amputee Harry Styles, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bottom Louis, Broken Harry, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Exes to Lovers, Fighting, Getting Back Together, Graphic Description of War Events, Harry writes poetry, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Harry, Jealous Louis, Love Poems, Love/Hate, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nightmares, Omega Louis, Pining, Protective Louis, Psychological Trauma, Rimming, Therapy, Top Harry, please read author's note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 66,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27763432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomlinvelvet/pseuds/tomlinvelvet
Summary: “Your scent lingering on my pillow…oh Honey,If only you knew thatthe moment I dread most every time you leave…Is when it fades.”Six years is a long time for Louis to mend his heart back and erase every lingering, stubborn memory of his ex-lover, Harry Styles. But when news of the war being over spreads across the world like wildfire, and he stumbles upon the alpha he vowed himself to never see ever again, he realises that not even a lifetime will be enough for him to pick up the scattered, broken parts of his soul. He's far from expecting the alpha he loved to be struggling in the same way.All the ointments in the world might never soothe the pain out, but it doesn't take long for them both to come to the conclusion that, maybe, the only medicine to their heartbreaks are what caused them in the first place.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 55
Kudos: 274
Collections: Bottom Louis Fic Fest 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **hello! Thank you so much for coming there! It means a lot to me. I don't want to make this long but please, I want to mention some things. First, the line "the moment I dread most every time you leave… Is when it fades" is not from me, but from The Witcher's tv-shows! It's so beautiful and I thought it fitted perfectly this fic. Second of all, please keep in mind before proceeding that this fic is angsty; it tackles topics such as pain, war, depression, trauma, anger issues, heartbreaks (exes-to-lovers), nightmares. Harry is an amputee, also. I don't think necessary to tag Graphic Depiction of Violence, but sometimes there will be mentions of war events. If despite all of this, you still want to read, then thank you!**
> 
> **Also thank you to the BLFF mods for hosting such an amazing fest. I always thrive writing for it, I love how easy it is to communicate with them, and how the process of writing always goes smoothly. This is why I've decided to write not two, bur three fics this year! So thank you BLFF mods! Love you loads x**
> 
> **Many thanks to Ris for betaing this fic. You are an angel!**
> 
> **Happy reading, loves. I'm baring my baby to your beautiful eyes! <3**

𝒽𝒶𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒾𝒶 — [fic post.](https://tomlinvelvetfics.tumblr.com/post/640294744922210304/your-scent-lingering-on-my-pillow-oh-honey-if)

✰

 **_Hamartia:_ ** _the fatal flaw that leads the central figure of a tragedy to eventual catastrophe._

✰

_Your scent lingering on my pillow…_   
_oh Honey,_   
_if only you knew that_   
_the moment I dread most every time you leave…_   
_Is when it fades._

✰

1945 

There are spots of water-based gouache drying on the small round tables and damp sheets of Easter-themed paintings bathing under the dull sunlight filtering through the windows. Colour pencils are strewn here and there, their tips damaged after being used for hours on end, and though Louis usually gets the children to clean them the moment they’re done colouring, he has felt a great deal of excitement hanging in the air and hasn’t been able to get them to calm down long enough to perform simple tasks such as gathering the cardboard boxes that have fallen on the floor or rubbing the dried gouache with a water-clogged cloth. So he’s sent them off on a mission to get the freckles of paints off their tiny fingers, to have a little bit of peace while he busies himself crouching all over the room, trying to tidy it up and render it presentable.

He’s careful as he gently cleans the tables free of gouache, making sure to avoid touching the beautiful drawings the children made with the wet rag. He’s gently humming to himself, pulling the row of rainbow chairs back to their respective places around the tables, when he feels something tug the back of his slacks, making him snap his attention away from a particularly stubborn drop of dried paint.

He finds Jolene’s big brown eyes looking up at him, her teddy bear cradled against her chest and her cheeks rosy from the chilled breeze outside. He offers her a fond smile, kneeling down so he’s face to face with her. Her long eyelashes are slightly wet, a sure sign that she has been crying, though it doesn’t alarm Louis much. Jolene is an omega who suffers from emotional dysregulation, and Louis would often find her crying, quiet sobs making her little body tremble, over the simplest thing such as a ladybug flying away from her or the sky becoming cloudy. He tenderly brushes long strands of blonde hair away from her face, waiting for her to talk. He’s learnt it’s useless to try and coax the words out of her mouth, but rather to make her understand that he is all ears and ready when she is.

Finally, she starts talking, clutching her old stuffed bear even closer. “Mama said daddy’s not coming back home.” Her voice is tiny, rough with emotions, and Louis feels himself freezing as he understands the implication behind her words.

Her dad’s gone off to war, and isn’t coming back.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he gulps. “Do you want a hug?” he asks, opening his arms slightly as Jolene nods her head briskly, falling forward until she’s on his chest. He closes his arms around her, leaning his cheek against the top of her head and purposely releasing soothing pheromones. He feels the fabric of his button down shirt turn wet as fat tears roll down her cheeks, and slowly, but surely, he can hear his own heart breaking in thousands pieces. It’s such a cruel twist of fate for a five year old to go without one of their parents, and Louis can relate to the throbbing pain she is experiencing, having felt the hole it left when he himself lost his father to cancer at the tender age of six. He tightens his hold, rocking their bodies until she finally stops crying.

“Better?” he wonders, his voice gentle, and she nods her head, keeping it against his chest, not yet ready to detach herself from him. Her teddy bear has fallen down on his lap, and she hurries to pick it up, whispering an apology to it for letting it go. Louis scrunches his nose up in fondness, and he doesn’t know how long they stay like that, cuddling, but when the tears stop falling, she leans back. He uses his thumbs to rub her wet cheeks, and he lets his omega scent surround them. Her tense shoulders relax, and she puts her thumb in her mouth, sucking on it. She ducks her head and he watches as she gives a tiny nod then dashes out of the door, eager to join her friends.

He stays on the ground long after she’s gone, his heart beating way too fast to be deemed normal. He’s heard the whispers in the dark corners of the street alleys, has seen the deafening words that can’t be muttered in the tears of the people who aren’t fortunate enough, and he’s tried not to let it get to him, but it’s _hard._ He gulps and, with shaky legs, stands up, picking up the wet rag again and clutching it between his fingers.

The afternoon is a blurry thing, his mind preoccupied by what Jolene has told him. The Second World War was an event that very few saw coming, especially not after the disaster that was the First World War, and yet… and yet blood and pain and death made a comeback, and every alpha and beta in good shape were enrolled and gone by boats across the sea, while their families remained behind, unsure on whether they would ever see them again. None of the disillusion that was present the first time appeared on that sad day, and yet the awareness of the possible outcome of the war has hovered over their heads for seven long years.

He has watched his friends bid him farewell, and he hasn’t seen them ever since. Cuddling himself, he waves goodbye to the children as they run to their parents, and he stays in the doorway, admiring the exchanged laughter and the love of the mothers for their children. Then he takes a deep breath and goes back into his classroom, eyes flicking from one corner to another, making sure everything is spotless. The children’s drawings are hanging on a thick strip of thread, held there by clothespins, and as he gathers his bag and throws on his black coat, he can’t help but feel melancholic at the prospect of not seeing his dear classroom for two entire weeks. 

He’s come to find comfort in the simplest thing, be it a boiling kettle or going to the grocery store, and while most people try to avoid monotonousness, he embraces it. There’s no unwanted surprise when walking the same path again and again, except maybe for a tree root jutting out of the soil, or a squirrel rushing by before it can be seen. There’s nothing terrifying enough to make one’s guts tickle and one’s paranoia takes over, and instead, it all remains so trivial that he doesn’t have to glance over his shoulder every once in a while for fear to be strafed by creeping shadows. As he locks the door behind him, his hand lingers on the brass door knob, which has seen the handprints of hundreds of people. Two weeks, he reminds himself. It’s not the end of the world.

Then why does it feel like it?

He gulps and takes a step away from the door. On it is written, _Mr. Tomlinson,_ and it is decorated with cartoonishly drawn flowers, ladybugs, and leaves that sport the colour of spring. Looking at it is certainly more jovial than glancing up at the cloudy sky, or sitting down in his silent, frozen dining room. _Two weeks._ Two weeks then he’ll have his mind preoccupied again.

Sephora smiles at him as he passes by her office. She’s crouching down next to a little alpha boy, who has a band-aid on his elbow. He’s trying very hard not to cry, his head held high as Sephora tends to his knee, which has got a bleeding rash. He shakes his head in fondness. He pushes his sleeves down over his hands, trying to prevent the gentle cold from penetrating the tips of his fingers.

“Bye,” he sing-songs, waving at the boy, who reciprocates the feeling with a beaming smile.

“Bye, Lou,” Sephora chuckles, giving him a tired smile. “Enjoy your break!”

He scrunches up his nose, grimacing. Sephora knows how he feels about being away from his children and his warm classroom. She just rolls her eyes as she urges the little alpha out of her office, scolding him when he immediately starts to run. _No running, Benjamin! You’ve wounded yourself once already, isn’t it enough?_ She sighs even louder once Benjamin is out of sight, and walks back to her desk, putting several sheets of paper together and hitting their bottom on the flat wooden surface until they’re perfectly lined. Finally, she glances at him, and can’t keep in her snort.

“Two weeks, Louis. There are loads of stuff to do besides clapping hands and singing songs with kids, like… I don’t know, maybe start taking care of your sorry excuse of a garden! All that overgrown grass…,” she fakes a high-pitched, scandalised voice. _“Louis, you know that every omega ought to have a perfect garden!”_

He pushes the back of his hand against his lips as a laugh spills out of them.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles, winking. She puts her things in her back as he hoists his satchel further up his shoulder, the weight of it sparking a bit of pain which travels down his arm. “I best get going,” he tells her, nodding slightly to the gate. “Enjoy your break, too!”

Then he’s off, stepping through the green gates without ever once looking back. The wind has picked up, and it compels him to draw the collar of his coat tighter around his throat. There’s a delicate petrichor smell wafting out from the damp ground as specks of snow melts against it, and along the distant choppy rumbles of rusty car engines, birds sing, hopping over beams of wood and chirping their little hearts away. He watches as one of them takes flight, shooting up into the sky and struggling to come to a stop mid-air, but then it’s going away, taking with it the vibrant red colour of its plumage. Whitby has started withering away as winter progressively settles in, manifesting its presence in the shape of leafless trees and whispers of a sky that won’t, for many months from now on, feel the caress of the sunshine.

He doesn’t mind, really. The weather changing is the only disturbance he allows in his life. He loves how winters suck away the warm hues of fall, turning them into icy blue tones, spitting them out so that the landscape is just frosted grass and grey skies. He avoids walking into a puddle, smiling softly to himself as his fringe falls in his eyes. With delicate fingers he brushes it away, tucking its tip behind his ear.

Whitby lies on the east coast of Yorkshire like a baby in its mother’s arms. Boats rock gently over the River Esk, the drink lapping up over their bow with each coming of rolling waves. He walks along the vast pool of water, looking out at the horizon line that the clouds render hard to dipher. His bag makes his arm ache, and yet he doesn’t want to hurry back to the four red-bricked walls that he’s come to call home. With the frosted sunlight fighting its way through the thick layer of water-soaked cotton candies, he’s perfectly happy to just stay there, his leather boots sinking into the patchy mud and his hair slightly curling up from the damp surrounding him. But, opposite the river, there’s also a stream of local stores that at this hour has already closed. _Jackie’s Snip_ ’s front store, painted in red, the owner of which is Jackie, is the only place where they can get their haircuts, though sometimes the result of said haircuts acts as a painful reminder that Jackie learnt from his now deceased grandmother and never actually went to hairdressing school (though he likes to say otherwise and lie through his teeth).

Not far away, there’s the biggest grocery store in Whitby which is only fifty square meters big and crammed full with imported canned food, and the occasional hit-of-the-moment products that Dove likes to display by the door, next to the single empty shelf reserved for the food that’s gone on sale, either because of the nearing expiry date or because no one in town actually bothers trying out new things (he included). He walks by, ducking down as a bird flies over his head, and turns into an alley, the ground slippery from the salty air. Whitby is built out of a series of interlocking alleyways, all of them leading down, at one point, to the homely port, and all of them crossing the single fountain which stands at the heart of the maze of narrow winding streets and piled up two-story houses. He has settled up north and a twenty-minute long walk is necessary to reach the school, but he doesn’t quite mind it, not when he’s taken to going through Whitby, becoming accustomed to the quiet little town.

Letting go of the bustling city of London for the untroubled little sea town that is Whitby had been a spontaneous decision, tainted by the need to see new things and forget the pain he’s experienced in the coal-painted walls of his ancient little flat, but after six years of walking the now familiar cobblestone streets, he has never, not even once, regretted his decision. The memories attached to Whitby are far less painful than the ones he’s left trapped in London, and although when night comes, tears sometimes stain his soft pillow, he will never walk out of the second life he’s built at the edge of Yorkshire's east coast.

The wind blows gently and zigzags along the red-bricked walls all the way down to the horseshoe bay. It blows his hair into his eyes, making him blink and shake his head gently, hoping to get the fine chestnut-coloured strands out of his face without having to use his hands. In the end, he has to brush his fingers along its curve, tucking its end behind his ear, a gesture he does at least a hundred times throughout the day. He should cut it, he thinks absently, but he enjoys how long his hair has gotten as it falls delicately over the top of his ears. He breathes in deeply the salt-induced air, and tightens his grip on the leather strap of his bag. He’s humming Dinah Shore’s _I’ll Walk Alone,_ one of the songs that brings out a bit of his suppressed nostalgia, when a hand closes around his biceps and a smiling, rosy face comes into view.

“You have _no_ idea,” Niall begins, pushing his head full of blond stands against Louis’ temple in a friendly manner. “How afraid I was that I would miss you. You’ve left the school later than usual! Which, mind you, is a blessing since Roy decided to keep me half an hour more in that goddamned room.”

He lets out a soft giggle as Niall rests his head on his shoulder and _pouts,_ his pale skin warmer than it looks as the heat slips through Louis’ clothes, adding to his own. Together they continue walking up the potholed street, and he has to walk significantly slower since Niall’s stuck to him, but he doesn't mind. He didn’t expect to meet his friend, knowing that he left the school much later, all this extra time justified by his unwillingness to step out of his classroom, fully aware that it won’t be another two weeks before he’ll get to step back into it. His very own pout threatens to twist the shape of his lips, but he keeps his face impassive as clouds of white smoke escapes his lips as he exhales.

Niall nudges his side, smiling gently. “How’ve you been, Lou?”

 _Meh,_ he wants to blurt out, but that’s a barely satisfactory answer, not to Niall though, who has the extraordinary ability to read between the lines. That’s why he’s Louis’ best friend, because he doesn’t need much to understand him; if Louis were to be a book with no summary on the back, Niall would still be able to get most of the plot from the pattern on the dust jacket. He is observant, something that at the beginning of their friendship, Louis dreaded. But in the end, all it means is that he doesn’t have to express his emotions into words, something he’s become less and less prone to doing, as Niall is competent enough to figure it out for him. He chances a look to the side, finding his friend’s sympathetic eye, and he just shrugs. Niall sighs.

“Two weeks is _fine,”_ Niall drawls, intertwining their arms so he can rock them side to side, which pulls a soft smile out of Louis. “Those kids need some holidays, and Jesus Almighty knows that _you_ need some too!”

He pretends to be offended. “What does that mean? Is it the dark circles? Do I look that bad?”

Niall rolls his eyes, and Louis laughs as they approach the — unfortunately — closed book shop.

“No, you shit,” Niall affectionately squeezes his forearm. “You look perfect as usual. But surely it’s not healthy going back and forth between your classroom and your bedroom, one of which is perpetually noisy and chaotic while the other one… _lacks action._ You haven’t come down to the pub with me in ages! I have to catch you midway to even say a word or two to you. You’re worse than my deceased grandma,” he frowns, looking up at the grey sky. “Rest in peace, grandma Orla.”

Louis has to push the back of his hand against his lips to keep himself from guffawing. He feels his cheeks colour up at Niall’s outrageous — but unfortunately, true — insinuation to his pathetic excuse of a sex life (or rather, the complete lack thereof). He holds himself back from telling Niall that going out with them, and to the local pub of all places, won’t get him laid. After so many years in Whitby, he’s come to know almost every single person inhabiting the cheek by jowl houses. He’s tried dating some of the alphas that have caught his attention whenever he would actually join Niall at _Sherbets’_ sticky-sweet counter, but all of his attempts led to deception.

He doesn’t want to admit it, — especially not to Niall, or God forbid he will never hear the end of it — but he kind-of gave up on the prospect of finding an alpha anytime soon. 

And he’s _definitely_ never going to reveal to Niall the reason as to why he’s been unable to settle down with someone.

He slightly panics when he feels a ball forming in his throat, but it thankfully doesn’t progress any further, doesn’t make the tears fall over his cheeks. They’re drawing closer to his house, and by then they have left the jumble of the city for a more reserved neighborhood. Trees are growing more abundant now when previously, they were rare findings as they stood awkwardly next to the towering blocks they were planted too close to, their roots trapped deep within the hardened concrete. Winter has turned the once vibrant saplings into hollow shadows of their past-self, and their soft spring foliage has been stripped down to gnarled, naked branches that stand out against the pale landscape like a drop of black paint in the middle of a blank canvas. Niall hums to himself as he pushes open the small gate that barely protects his house. Jingling sounds hover between them, fading into air as Louis fishes his keys from the deepest part of his bag.

He unlocks his door and glances over his shoulder when he hears Niall’s disbelieving laugh.

“This is the ugliest fucking garden I’ve had the displeasure of seeing in my entire life,” his body shakes with laughter as he steps into the house after Louis. “Grandma Orla is dying all over again.”

Louis hangs up his coat, removes his boots that he push messily against the wall, and lets his bag drop to the ground. He pulls his tongue out at Niall as he jogs to his kitchen, and he grabs two cups that he abandons on the counter in order to put the kettle on.

“Stop bullying Grandma Orla,” he huffs, earning himself a chuckle. He faux-glares at Niall as he waits for the water to boil, and he gestures for the fridge. Years of knowing each other has made it so that Niall knows exactly what it is that he is asking from him, so the blond-haired omega fetches the milk, the glass bottle clanking as he puts it on the table.

“So,” Niall drawls, throwing a thumb randomly over his shoulder, towards where the garden is. “Are you going to do something about this… monstrosity?”

He pretends to think about it, tapping a dainty finger on his chin. He widens his eyes as he pours the hot water over the teabags, watching as the clear liquid instantly becomes tainted in soft, honey-kissed brown. He adds a dash of milk to either cups, and sprinkles some sugar in Niall’s, knowing the omega can’t drink it without at least a bit of it (which, in his opinion, is a crime). He is careful as he brings the cup to the dining room, where Niall has laid down over the plush settee, his feet propped up on the coffee table.

“It’s just a garden,” he shrugs as he passes over Niall’s tea. “Maybe I’ll do something about it, maybe not.”

Niall sighs and sips the hot liquid, fog curling up in front of his youthful face. He’s assessing Louis over the edge of the cup, his icy blue eyes practically sparkling. The sunlight has dulled since they’ve arrived, a telltale sign that the gloom of the night is nearing, and the house now bathes in a muted glow of the day. Out of the window a tree branch can be seen, disturbing the landscape. Niall has often suggested cutting it off, but he’s never come around to doing it, finding that he rather likes it. It gives the view an unexpected, spooky, almost ethereal effect; a phenomenon that has, more than once, reminded him of his favourite book. He often likes to picture Lockwood as he’s reaching for the lone tree branch out of his window, intending to stop the incessant tapping which has been disturbing his sleep; it reminds him of when Lockwood is grabbed by Catherine’s ghost hand. As he sips his tea, he gazes at the untamed grass, thinking that indeed, he maybe should consider trimming it. The fence that moulds his garden has worn down with time, the wood’s once vibrant brown colour fading out as the sea salt bleaches it and the cold weather rains over it. 

It’s peaceful where he lives. The neighbourhood is as creamy as ice cream, and it waits to be melted up as the day comes up, and to freeze again as night settles back in. It’s a closed routine he’s become quite familiar with, and he won’t trade it for anything in the world. The hot tea slides down his throat, and he hums around the taste. His attention shifts back to Niall as the omega sighs, his face twisted in what he assumes is anxiety. Louis licks his lip, bracing himself for what’s to come.

He knows it won’t be another comment on the chaotic state of his garden.

“The war’s over,” Niall mutters, his eyes fixed on his empty cup. His thin fingers play with the porcelain, twirling it delicately, mindful to not topple it over and risk it breaking apart against the cold ground.

Louis’ heart shoots up to his throat, clogging it. He fills his mouth with even more tea, using it as an excuse to not talk, to not mutter a single word that he knows will never be enough to describe the sorrow he feels. Outside, a dog chases after a butterfly, while its owner trails behind it, hands deep in a thin coat. He doesn’t let his eyes wander away from the lone soul as it disappears through the faint mist of the English sea coast, and his lip twitches with the need to scream. His heart is as dejected as the dog that will have to watch the source of its happiness fly away, never to come back.

The war’s over. He should be happy. People have been going out with beaming smiles on their face and tears of joy glistening within their eyes. It’s a matter of time before sons, fathers, brothers and uncles finally come back to their families. Years of longing, of fear and heartbreaks are progressively becoming memories. All it will take is for a mother to hug her son, or for a spouse to be reunited with their significant other.

He, on the other hand, won’t get to hug anyone.

And he definitely won’t get to sweep under the rug the broken pieces of his heart.

  
  


-

  
  


Chopin is tenderly playing in the background. Grounded coffee beans infuse the air with their warm fragrance, and he hums to himself while staring hard into the black liquid tainting the glass. The packet of sugar is still full and resting forgotten next to the saucer. With delicate fingers he takes the little chocolate he was given with his drink, and he pops it in his mouth. It’s slightly hard from the cold, but it doesn’t take long for it to melt against his tongue, and he chews slowly. Next to him, Niall is listening, albeit with difficulty, to Joceline, who is waving her purple-coloured nails in the air, a smoking cigarette dangling from her lips. He watches, slightly anxious, as particles of ash fall from the burning end, flying in the air and landing on the clean tablecloth.

“Mom hadn’t stopped crying,” she chuckles, chewing around a strawberry-jam covered scone. She takes a long drag from the fag. “She used to read his letters every single night.”

“But you’re glad,” Rachel stresses out, her eyes sparkling. “That he’s back, I mean.”

Joceline scoffs, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Of course I am, he’s my brother.”

Niall purses his lips. “It just felt like you weren’t, is all. But is he glad to be back here?”

Joceline cocks her head to the side, thinking. “Daniel? I have no idea, to be honest. I think he’s glad that he’s alive, and back to his family. But I think there’s a part within him that hasn’t completely settled down, which I don’t blame him for. He’s been sent all over the world. He almost cried when mom drew him a hot bath.”

Louis furrows his eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. Instead he drinks his plain coffee, rubbing his tired eyes. He hasn’t been able to sleep properly, for some unknown reasons. His skin has been itching, and more than once he had startled awake in the middle of the night, frantically glancing around. Sometimes there’s the lingering ghost of fingerprints over his cheeks, other times he has the impression that a face is looking at him from the window. He leans back against his chair and sighs, not loudly by any means, but it’s enough for Rachel to snap her attention to him, blinking quickly, as if she had forgotten he was even there. He can't blame her; he hasn’t spoken since they’ve sat down at the round table near the tall window. Niall, bless him, hasn’t tried to coax him into talking. He’s not feeling it.

Rachel isn’t Niall though, so she leans forward, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her hands. “Louis,” she smiles, showing off her perfect teeth. They glimmer under the soft glow of the chandelier hung over their head, and he pushes his hands between his thighs, nervous. “You haven’t said much!”

He wants to tell her that he hasn’t for a reason, which is that he doesn’t want to participate in the conversation. He’s come down to the café only because Niall practically begged him, claiming that _‘without you, Lou, I will go berserk if I have to endure Joceline and Rachel on my own!’_ and he will do anything for Niall, so naturally he accepted. He’s starting to regret his decision, though, rendered worse as Rachel’s eyes glint dangerously. She isn’t a mean person by any means, but she loves gossip, and she has a way with people that, most of the time, puts them in extremely uncomfortable positions. Like right now, he wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole, but since it won’t happen he settles on munching on his chapped lips. He ponders an answer, his eyes going back and forth between Rachel’s curious irises and Joceline’s pursed lips, which are painted bright red.

In the end, he shrugs, bringing his coffee to his mouth. He doesn’t want to talk, so he won’t. If it bothers anyone, then it’s not his problem. Rachel pouts, glancing over at Joceline.

“I was convinced you had something to say,” she whines, her high-pitched voice practically echoing around them. She swiftly steals a piece of scone from Joceline, popping it in her mouth. Her hat slightly leans back from her head and she hurries to put it back into place, giggling at her own antics. He frowns as he processes her words, and curiosity gets the better of him.

“What do you mean?” he tilts his head to the side, tracing the edge of the cup with his digit, feeling the wet side of it, where his mouth has been. She raises an eyebrow, as if to say, _are you serious?._ He feels Niall tense from next to him.

“You don’t know?” she opens her mouth, but closes it, as if trying to come up with the proper words. _Don’t know what?_ He’s two seconds away from glaring daggers at all three of them. Niall chuckles awkwardly and seems to stare at a spot over Joceline’s head, which happens to be a stunning painting of London city made out of coffee. He crosses his arms over his chest, digging his nails in his biceps, dreading what she’s about to say.

Her eyes twitch and she moves her attention to something behind him, then her eyes light up. She quickly stands up, gathering her purse and giving him a nervous smile.

“I’d love to talk some more, but I really have to get going. I, uh, have a meeting with someone!”

Then she takes off to the café entrance, stepping outside and practically gluing herself to a tall man. He glances over his shoulder in disbelief, straightening up when Joceline puts her cigarette out in the ashtray, dropping the butt inside of it. He stares at it, at the way her red lipstick has tainted the stick. He glances to the side, trying not to feel offended when she quickly spews out a half-arsed excuse, and also hurries out of the café. Niall is the only one who doesn’t abandon him, though he can smell that the blond omega is nervous. His usually gentle, citrus-infused scent has taken a bitter undertone, and he turns his body so that he’s facing his best friend properly.

“Niall,” he whispers, afraid that by talking any louder, he’ll sharpen the reality of the situation.

He has an inkling idea of what’s about to come out of Niall’s mouth, and he doesn’t like it. In fact, he’d rather not hear any of it. Before Niall can open his mouth, he shakes his head frantically and stands up, abandoning several drops of coffee at the bottom of the cup.

“Let’s get out of here,” he gulps, pushing his hands in his coat’s pockets. Niall jerks his head in agreement, apprehension written all over his face. They’ve already paid their orders, so they wordlessly walk out of the café. He manages to give a feeble smile to Patricia, the owner, which she reciprocates cheerfully, unaware of the storm brewing within him. As he steps outside, the cold breeze that was muffled within the four walls of the café caresses his skin, ruffling his fringe which falls into his eyes. He uses his fingers to brush it to the side, and falls into step with Niall, who has begun making his way to the river. 

The water is rather still, and it paints a beautiful sight with the clouds gathering at the horizon line. Seagulls soar through the sky, dipping down among the boats that gently rock along the periodic ripples. He stops walking for a moment, content to just gaze at the contrast that the grey sky offers as it is reflected in the water, whose depth is impossible to gauge. Ice cream vendors bring smiles to people’s faces, cats dart out of narrow alleys, attracted by the smell of fresh fish. Niall enterwines their arms, and he softens as he sees his friend’s troubled face. 

“It’s alright,” he breathes out, the wind carrying his words between them, twirling them around like dead leaves picked up by Zephyrus in fall. Niall shrugs.

“I mean, you know,” he gulps and turns his blue orbs towards Louis. “The war’s over.”

He unconsciously tightens his hold on Niall’s bicep, leaning even closer to the other omega. He seeks comfort in his friend, and he doesn’t try to hide it; Niall, bless him, scents him slightly, his fresh, natural omega scent washing over Louis and making him relax.

The war’s over, he repeats to himself. It means a lot of things to many people, those four words — it means broken family mending back, damaged souls healing in the familiar, nonviolent confine of their hometowns… but to him? It means being faced with the possibility of having his scarred heart drenched in acid. He doesn’t know what he expected, really. He looks around, half-expecting to see the reason for his distress lurking in the shadows, but he comes up empty. The relieved sigh that leaves his lips falls to the ground, and as they begin to walk along the river, he steps over it, trampling it. It’ll be short-lived, anyway, that feeling of utter relief. 

And he’s right.

Days later and the weather hasn’t changed. As he steps onto his porch, he blinks down at the hell of weed munching on the stone-steps. He sighs. His garden really needs tending. He pushes open the small gate and swiftly makes his way to the heart of Whitby. At this hour of the day, it beats steadily, with merchants selling fresh vegetables, fruits, and fish. His hands are in his pockets, one of them fisting a piece of crumpled paper between his digits.

 _Pick-A-Book_ is situated strategically in a street corner, near the local grocery store, so that whenever someone needs to get to the latter, they necessarily pass by the former. It’s one of his favourite places in all Whitby. Although it’s rather small, it’s packed to the brim with second-hand books. The owner, Gerald, has made it his life mission to seek abandoned copies and re-sell them, and Louis is forever grateful that he lives so close to what he considers to be a treasure trove. He crosses the road, white puff of smoke escaping his lips once last time before he steps through the doorway. 

Instantly, he’s greeted by the warm smell of yellowing pages, and at the counter stands Gerald, an alpha that’s nearing his seventy-fifth birthday. His kind eyes instantly fall on Louis, and he lights up. Despite his old age, Gerald remains in top-shape, easily able to lead an entire army if he wanted to. He’s tall and hasn’t fallen out of shape, but what he likes about Gerald is that he isn’t prejudiced. He’s always treated him right and his kind brown eyes have always put him at ease.

“Hi, Gerald,” he greets the alpha, his eyes instantly going to the bookshelf he knows is reserved to new arrivals. The alpha chuckles.

“Hi, Louis,” he bows his head, gesturing to the novels next to him. “Twelve new novels that I found in the south! Come have a look.”

The blue-eyed omega approaches the selection eagerly, his eyes going over the titles. There’s a well-loved copy of _My Ántonia_ by Willa Cather, _Malice Aforethought_ by Francis Iles, which he has never heard about. He smiles when he spots a beautiful edition of _Frenchman’s Creek,_ a historical novel he particularly enjoyed because of its romantic trope. He caresses the spines tenderly, biting his lip. He’s got at least five other novels in his bedroom that need to be finished, but he knows already, before even having made his choice, that he’ll end up walking out of the book store with his arms full. He figures he might as well buy enough books to keep himself occupied for the upcoming weeks.

Gerald is reading the newspaper, his head tilted to the side, a toothpick dangling from the corner of his lips. Louis blinks when he sees the headline. _THE WAR IS OVER._ He gulps and hastily walks down the length of the store, his eyes going over the novels, though he doesn’t properly register the words. He picks up some of them randomly, adding _My Ántonia_ to the pile, then cautiously approaches the counter. He relaxes when Gerald snaps the newspaper closed to focus on him. He puts the books over the mahogany counter, biting his lip as the alpha sorts through it, jutting down references.

“Twenty-six pounds,” Gerald announces, and he passes over a couple of crumpled bills, his eyes twitching as they unconsciously glance down to the closed newspaper. Unsurprisingly, the headline glares at him. Gerald puts in a bag the books and gently passes it over, and he grabs it, the weight of it rather comforting.

He tries not to squirm under Gerald’s gaze. The alpha is assessing him, a frown marring his features.

“Are you alright?” he wonders, prudent, and Louis tightens his digits around the bag’s handle. He schools his face into a neutral one, though he adds a soft smile so the lie that comes out of his mouth afterwards looks a little more like the truth

“Of course,” he slowly backs away toward the door. “Have a nice day, Gerald!”

The alpha calls out a, _you too!,_ but he’s already stepping into the street, the words getting muffled as the door closes after him. He breathes in the crisp air, closing his eyes for several seconds to get his breathing under control, and to push back the tears that threaten to spill over and down his cheeks. He walks to the grocery store, and takes from his pocket, the little piece of paper on which he had scribbled what he needed. There isn’t much. Eggs, flour, tea, apples, baking powder. He has added _'_ _box of chocolates’_ which he plans on bringing to the school once his break is over, so that he can share them with the children. The thought of their happy squeals and their cocoa-smeared mouths bring a genuine smile to his face, and he steps into the grocery store with that on his mind.

Having to carry both the books and his groceries isn’t the easiest thing to do, especially when he has to walk all the way back up to his house, but he ignore the pain in his shoulders, or his skin turning red under the pressure of the bags’ handles, in favour of the beautiful sight that the frosted sunlight offers as it falls over the red-bricked walls. His boots squelch as he walks over muddy cobblestones. Sometimes his attention shifts away from the landscape, usually whenever his name is being called from acquaintances that wish to greet him. But other than that, he makes it back to his house with minimal interference, and he gets to do a little morning walk, which is very much needed since he has planned on staying inside, with a steaming cup of tea and a good book.

He’s passing by the bakery that’s five minutes away from his house when he spots Joceline. She’s talking to a tall man with short hair and a strong face, and he knows it’s Daniel. Despite himself, he stops in his tracks, his eyes drawn to the alpha. To the ex-soldier alpha. He remembers the first time he met Daniel; it was several years before the war, when he took a trip to Whitby. He’s always been tall, but he wasn’t bulky. Now though, his muscles have developed. He’s smiling, gazing at his sister with tenderness. Louis frowns as, even though the distance, he can see the long scar that runs down Daniel’s forearm.

Before he can move and quietly slip out of view, Joceline catches his eyes and she instantly waves him over. He wants to groan and pretend he can’t, that he has other things to do, but she knows he has all the time in the world now that he’s on his break so, gritting his teeth, he walks to the siblings. Daniel is looking at him with furrowed brows, his stare intense.

“Louis!” Joceline takes his hand affectionately, smiling at him. “This is Daniel, I mean, you already know that,” she rolls her eyes just as Daniel extends his hand, which Louis shakes after dropping his grocery back on the ground. He notices that Daniel’s hand is calloused and feels rough to the touch.

“It’s nice to see you again,” Daniel says, his voice deep. His brown eyes fly over Louis’ face, as if trying to figure out a riddle. He feels petite under the alpha’s gaze, and goes to great length not to blush. When Daniel finally lets go of his hand, it falls back to his side, slightly clammy. He doesn’t like the way Daniel is just… staring at him, his eyes unreadable. It’s unnerving and makes his guts tickle with the need to run back to his house, to his safe haven. 

“We have to get going,” Joceline sighs, waving a bag full of freshly baked rolls. “Mom will have my head if I waste any more time!”

“Sure!” he rushes to say, grabbing the grocery bags. She starts to walk to the opposite direction, waving at him as she goes, but Daniel lingers slightly. The wind makes his dark hair fly into his eyes, but he doesn’t do anything to push it back. Around his neck, a necklace dangles. A cross. It makes unwanted memories flash through his brain and he doesn’t say anything as he whirls around and hurries up the street, practically running. He thinks Daniel calls after him, but he pretends he doesn’t hear it. 

The door bangs against the wall as he kicks it open, and dropping the bags he locks it, fingers shaking. His breathing has gone laboured, and he slides down the door, drawing his knees to his chest. There’s pain gripping his heart, squeezing it until it struggles to beat.

The war is over.

And Harry Styles is back.

  
  


-

  
  


As the days tick by, he stays holed up in his dining room, munching his way through his books. He likes diving into different worlds, which helps him forget his very own. The words on the pages act as a therapy on him, and surprisingly, two weeks fly by rather quickly. On the day he is to go to work, he’s buzzing with excitement. He dresses in fitted pants, a soft button down, then throws his coat on. It isn’t too cold outside. It has snowed throughout the night, resulting in the landscape being painted in white. He pushes a beanie down to his eyebrows, bruising his fringe to the side, and slips on leather boots. He almost forgets the box of chocolates, but thankfully he hurries to the cupboard and takes it out, putting it in his satchel. Then he heaves its strap over his shoulder and steps out on the porch.

His garden is still a mess. He spent his entire break eating, drinking tea, and reading. He hasn’t found the strength to do anything else, and he doesn’t even regret it. His cheeks are a lovely rosy colour as the chill air caresses them, and when he breathes thin white particles appear, only to fade right after. He licks his chapped lips, playing with a loose skin using his teeth. Tiny birds chip from the trees, making him smile as one of them flies down, landing on the wet cement. He stops for several seconds, just to admire it. But then it takes off towards the sky, and he goes on with his life.

The school comes into view. It stands innocently among trees, cocooned by houses and other buildings. He can see children running outside, and he finally feels a bit more like himself. He has tremendously missed his children, and as he pushes the gate open and slips through it, instantly they spot him, running across the grass with beaming smiles on their faces.

A chorus of _“Mr. Tomlinson!”_ waltzes into the air and he crouches down to properly greet them all. He kisses their foreheads and his scent surrounds them, more potent than the children’s. He fishes his keys out and starts to walk to his classroom after asking the children to queue behind him, which they do though it takes several minutes for them to calm down enough to choose a partner. He almost kisses his decorated door, and he sighs happily as he throws it open and the children drop their little bags in their appointed cubbies, then run to their seat. He takes his time getting his books out of his bag, and he keeps the chocolate for the end of the day.

The classroom looks exactly the same as when he left it, the children’s drawings still hanging from the threads. He takes them down and passes them over to each of the children, then he goes to stand in front of the blackboard, clapping his hands to get the kids’ attention.

“Hi!” he exclaims, smiling wide as the children all collectively greet him in a mix of _hi! Hello! Good morning!_. He softens as he takes in their sparkling eyes, their cold-bitten cheeks, their thick little jumpers. “How was your holiday?” he wonders, several excited hands shooting up in the air. He randomly points at a little boy to his right, James, who is practically hopping on his chair.

“It was amazing!” he beams, a toothy smile splitting his face in two. “Daddy came back home!”

He raises an eyebrow, genuinely delighted that James’ father is back from war. Over the two weeks break, he’s managed to get a hold of himself so that he can stop flinching whenever the war is mentioned. He listens as James rants about going to Manchester and eating candies, then he asks someone else. Most of them are glad that their fathers are back, but when he spots Jolene looking down at her hands, dejected, his heart drops to his gut and he changes the topic. He tells them what they’re going to do throughout the day, and from then he tries to keep Jolene’s mind occupied.

He adores days like this, when he doesn’t see the minutes ticking by and at the end of the day his muscles ache pleasantly. He’s always tired, especially after handling sixteen children that have too much energy, but he embraces the difficulty. His instinct to care for others has rendered him patient, so becoming a kindergarten teacher had been an easy choice. As the sunlight dulls in the distance, and the grey sky fades into warmer hues, he yawns, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. The children have been gone for fifteen minutes now, but as is his wont, he stays behind to clean up the room. He starts by rubbing the tables with a cloth, scrunching up his nose when he finds chocolate finger-shaped prints on some of them. He gathers his books and places them back into his bag, which he ties open and puts over his shoulder.

To him, there’s nothing more rewarding than coming back to a cosy house after a day spent working. He feels good when he gets to sit down with a book and a cup of tea, his aching limbs finally relaxing. It’s probably this way of thinking that allows him to find beauty in his quaint little routine. He doesn’t ask for more, really. And even if sometimes loneliness weighs down on his shoulders when he slides into bed or when the silence of the house becomes too much to bear, most of the time he manages to get himself out of the water for another breath of fresh air.

Sephora bids him goodbye as he passes by her office, and he chirps an answer back. With the sun progressively disappearing, the air has grown even colder than before. The petrichor smell in the air has become the telltale sign of an upcoming downpour, so he walks faster, not wanting to be drenched in rain water. He doesn’t fancy falling ill just when he has started working. 

He crosses the road, flying through the streets, his back hunched over. Whitby becomes ethereal as night settles in and the streetlamps are turned on; they cast their glow over the cheek by jowl houses, merging with the lights coming from the boats. People love staying up late, and since the war is over it’s become even more frequent for pubs to be crammed with families wanting to celebrate the new chapter of their life. He licks his lips as he rounds _Pick-A-Book,_ but before he can make it any further, he collides with someone and goes tumbling to the ground, instantly cringing when he feels water seeps through the fabric of his coat.

“I’m so—,” a deep voice begins to say, but it cuts itself short as he uses his hands to stand up, rubbing his muddy palms against his coat. He’ll have to wash it, anyway. 

He frowns and looks up, ready to tell the person that it’s alright, but then the words get stuck into his throat, slowly morphing into nausea. His eyes widen as they meet two green irises that he never thought he’d ever get to see again. In an instant, pain shoots through his body and collides with his heart like rolling waves crashing against rocks, and he stays rooted to the spot, unable to do anything.

Harry is standing in front of him. The person who damaged his heart so bad that it hasn’t been able to mend itself back after _six_ years, is right there, alive and well and… right _there._ He bites his bottom lip lest it’d start trembling, and pushes his hands deep within his coat's pockets so that the tremors going through them can’t be seen.

“Louis,” Harry says carefully, his voice thick and deep. Hearing his name being muttered in that voice threatens to make his knees give out. He swallows the ball forming in his throat. This is a mistake. Harry shouldn’t be there; he should be in London. Whitby isn’t… it isn’t for Harry. He can’t make sense of anything and it’s pushing him back to a dark corner in which he has vowed himself to never go back to. He glances down at his feet and clenches his jaw, unable to answer, unable to acknowledge what’s only several centimeters away from him. A bike speeds by, making a slight breeze levitate in the air. 

He takes a deep breath.

And looks up.

He’s hit once again with his ex-boyfriend standing before him, straight as a rod. When he focuses properly on the alpha’s face, it’s to find empty eyes and features that have become sharper. The little baby fat that he used to cherish has melted off, leaving in their wake a sharp jaw and prominent cheekbones. He seems to have grown bigger too, the lanky teenager he used to meet in the middle of the night having died in favour of a strong, muscular adult. He isn’t disturbed by the obvious physical change the alpha he used to love — still does, unfortunately — has gone through.

But he’s deeply troubled as he notices the blankness within Harry’s eyes.

This is not the Harry Styles he knows. This is the shell of the man he used to kiss in the dead of the night. He’s completely caught off-guard not only by seeing his ex again, but by realising that he doesn’t recognise him anymore.

So he does the only thing he can think of. He stares straight ahead and walks by Harry, pretending the alpha isn’t there, pretending that Harry’s sandalwood and slightly astringent (which wasn’t that way years before) scent doesn’t affect him.

He’s both relieved and disappointed when Harry doesn’t hold him back.

  
  


-

  
  


His tears merge with the water that he splashes over his face. The thick bubbles around him hide his naked body to Niall’s worried eyes, who is sitting next to the bathtub, the smoke curling up from the steaming hot water partially blurring his face. The smell of lavender is potent around them, but it does nothing, absolutely _nothing,_ to keep the memory of Harry’s alpha scent away. He digs his nails into the palms of his hands, bitter. Who the fuck does Harry think to come to Whitby? To come to his safe place? To disturb his peace? He doesn’t realise he is shaking until Niall reaches out, taking his hand in his own and rubbing circles into his pruning skin.

“Careful,” he mutters. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

 _I’m already hurting,_ he wants to snap, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“I didn’t know he was there,” Niall sighs, shaking his head. “Fuck, Lou. Didn’t you tell me that he didn’t want to come to Whitby?”

He wants to laugh as he recalls the exact words that Harry had told him, that day seven years ago.

_“Why do you want to move to Whitby of all places? There’s nothing up there.”_

And he kept claiming so, never once stopping to consider that maybe he wanted a change of scenery. He sighs and shrugs, figuring it’s enough of an answer. There are times when he doesn’t know how to put his feelings into words, and right now is one of them. He tilts his head back against the hard porcelain of the tub, looking up at the blank ceiling. His vision swims with unshed tears, and he angrily wipes them away. Seeing Harry again after so many years… it’s like being doused in ice cold water, or being pushed into a crackling fire. In either scenario, it’s the pain that these opposite elements trigger that overwhelms him. 

He’s also so fucking angry. He’s torn between whimpering under his quilt, letting the tears taint his pillow, or shouting his heart out until his vocal folds snap and he’s got no voice anymore. He suddenly sits up, gripping the edge of the bathtub, hard.

“Why is he here?” he asks to no one in particular, Niall blinking in surprise at the sudden change of behaviour. “Why the _fuck_ is he here? He has _no_ right!”

His voice cracks and he crosses his arms over his chest, unconsciously scratching the skin with his nails. Niall stands up and clears his throat.

“Get out, Lou,” he says sternly, grabbing a towel and putting it on the edge of the tub. “Let’s have a cuppa.”

He doesn’t protest.

His skin turns several shades darker as he rubs it with the rough fabric of the towel. He’s probably trying to rub off the feeling of Harry’s eyes on him, but all he ends up doing is reddening his skin. He throws the towel to the side and slides on his pyjamas, the soft silky clothes welcoming against his irritated skin. He drags his feet out of the bathroom and into the dining room, watching silently as Niall potters about in the kitchen, preparing cups of tea. The smoke curls up from the boiling water within the kettle, and there’s the gentle fragrance of cake filling up the room. His mouth salivates and he goes to the chocolate cake, and he doesn’t bother cutting a piece out of it, he grabs a fork and tears a great chunk out of the fluffy cake, putting it against his tongue and chewing, cheeks puffing out. Niall raises an eyebrow at his antics but doesn’t comment on it.

He wants to cry. And eat cake until he’s as big as the moon, but he mostly wants to cry. He thinks the only reason as to why tears don’t leak out of his puffy eyes is because he drained himself raw back in the bathroom. He’s sure the water in the tub doubled size because of his tears. He chews unhappily around the spongy cake. What if he dreamt? What if all of this isn’t real, and he wakes up and Harry isn’t in Whitby? He licks his fork and grabs the cup that Niall passes over, sipping it. The warm liquid is welcome as it slides down his throat. The blond omega rounds the table and sits down next to him, angling his upper body so he’s facing him.

“Better?” he asks, rather unsure. Louis shakes his head, and Niall leans forward to wrap him in a hug.

“Maybe he’s here for a few days only?” Niall suggests, kissing his forehead. “Don’t worry Lou, maybe you won’t see him again.”

The little spark of hope that ignites in his lower belly is feeble, but it’s still there.

  
  


-

  
  


If he has any hope of never seeing his ex again, it gets crushed when he bumps into Harry while he is browning the aisles of the grocery store. It’s rather random, and abrupt. He has gotten the better half of his grocery lists already, and he’s going to get a few tomatoes to make some bolognese, when he comes fact to face with Harry. The alpha is sorting through the salads opposite him, and his head snaps up. Harry’s green eyes meet his, and he just… freezes, a tomato hanging mid-air, the bag gaping open, ready to receive it. The strong industrial light in the grocery store renders Harry’s hair darker, and his green eyes have gone mossy green. Louis bites his lips and snaps his attention back to the tomatoes, pushing them harshly into the bag until he’s satisfied. He wanted to get a salad, too, but screw it. He moves to the carrots and choses the prettiest one, all the while ignoring the alpha’s eyes following his every move. It’s unnerving, and he gulps and turns his back to those assessing green irises, and this time he picks up a pack of cashews even though he didn’t plan on getting them originally.

He hates how focused on the alpha he is to the point that even across the store, he can still catch a whiff of the alpha’s potent scent. It has changed during all those years. It has become more bitter, less sweet, and it bugs him enough that he glances over his shoulder, tensing when he meets Harry’s eyes.

 _What are you doing here?_ he wants to ask. _Why are you here?_ he also wants to find out. The angry part within him is convinced that Harry is only there to spite him. What are the odds that after all these years, Harry comes to Whitby? His jaw clenches and, with a determined expression, he turns around and stalks to the alpha. He still keeps a good distance between them, not trusting himself to go through his plan if he bathes too much into Harry’s intoxicating scent.

“Why are you here?” he practically snaps, his voice cold. By then Harry has moved on to the fruits, and he stops picking up oranges, and turns his head to watch him. His expression is unreadable, even as he licks his lips and frowns, probably pondering his answer. And he better gives a good one, because Louis is two seconds away from exploding.

“I needed a change of scenery,” he responds, his voice low and rough, his speech slightly slow like it’s always been (something that hasn’t changed), and it sends shivers through Louis’ body. He closes his fingers in fists as he gazes at the alpha, and he can’t help himself; a bitter laugh spills out of his lips, conveying just how ridiculous he finds the answer. The Harry Styles he knew would have gone to fucking New York if he wanted a ‘change of scenery,’ not to a quiet seaside town.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers, hating how vulnerable he sounds. He sees Harry step forward, and when he dares to look up, he’s met with an expressionless alpha. Harry’s hand twitches as if he wanted to reach out, but then his jaw clenches and he turns around. All Louis can do is watch the alpha’s broad back. It’s covered by a thick jacket, which makes him look even bigger than he used to be, and he feels so small as gazes up at the curls piled on top of Harry’s head. Guilt starts to swim within when he takes in the way Harry’s fingers shake, the tote bag that was tightly held between his ringed fingers falling to the ground.

“But I am,” is all the alpha says before storming out of the grocery store without ever once glancing back.

  
  


-

  
  


His fingers drum across the sheet underneath him as he gazes up at his blank ceiling. In the gloom, he can’t make out anything, but he doesn’t mind it; he’s staring at a bottomless pit, and it’s an accurate representation of his gaping heart. He’s down to his silk pyjamas, but even the light fabric feels heavy against his skin. He can’t find sleep no matter how much he tries, and instead he keeps tossing around. Either he feels too hot when he’s got the quilt over himself, or he’s too cold once he’s kicked it away. Sighing, he throws his legs to the side and stands up, his toes curling as they meet the cold ground.

In the kitchen, he makes himself a cup of tea. The steam that curls out of the liquid is welcoming as it warms up his skin, and he tenderly blows over it, then takes a tentative sip. His knee bounces up and down, and he can’t help but glance to the side, though he tries not to. Outside the window he can see the tree branch; it stands out as the sheer beams of the moonlight glow behind it.

Harry Styles shouldn’t be in Whitby. When he first caught news of the war being over, he knew that it meant Harry was back to the country. But he was far from imagining that Harry would be _there,_ there among the seagulls and the gentle ripples of the river and the salt-infused air. He’s haunted by the alpha’s green eyes, tormented by his heady scent, and he’s begun to revive memories that he thought he had buried a while ago. He rests his forehead on his hand, pushing his fringe off his face. He doesn’t know what to make of what’s going on. He’s so lost, is the thing.

Despite himself his eyes find the black tote bag leaning against the wall. Even if it’s basically across the room, he can still decipher the fragrance of sandalwood and vanilla.

  
  


-

  
  


He watches as the children walk out of the classroom, keeping an eye on them to make sure they don’t fall. Parents are waiting at the gates, crouching down to welcome their kids. He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but his heart pangs with longing, and he quickly shifts his attention to the broom in the corner of the room. He goes to it and starts to clean, gathering strips of paper and thin particles of dust in a pile. He only snaps his attention to the door when there’s a knock, and a smile spreads across his face as he sees Niall leaning against the doorway.

“If only you could take care of your poor garden the way you take care of your classroom,” he jokes, making a show of passing a finger over the nearest spotless furniture. Louis rolls his eyes and puts the broom back to where it originally was, then he gathers his things, slips on his coat and beanie, and approaches his best friend.

“Did you come all the way over there to mock my garden,” he scrunches up his nose as he steps out of the room and locks it. The keys jingle as he thrusts them into his bag, and with Niall falling into step with him, he makes his way to the school entrance. He waves at a few colleagues and follows Niall. It’s drizzling, and he blinks as a lone drop of rain slides down his cheek. He doesn’t hurry to wipe it away; for once, the drops on his face aren’t coming from his eyes. He tightens his fingers around the strap of his bag and quickens his pace to catch up to Niall.

Niall glances at him, tilting his head. He knows what the blond omega is going to ask before he even opens his mouth. “How are you feeling?”

 _I don’t know._ He licks his lips and casts his eyes down.

“It’s hard to say,” he settles on, swaying left to right, kicking a pebble and watching as it soars through the air and comes to a stop several meters away. “I saw him again. In the grocery store.”

Niall frowns, creeping closer to him as a bike drives past him. 

“How… did it go?” he inquires.

Louis thinks back to the dark eyes, the trembling fingers, the tensed back. He knows he’s upset Harry, and thought part of him feels bad for it, the other one takes great pleasure in the fact that he can still get under his former boyfriend’s skin. He knows it’s wrong but he wants Harry to hurt a little bit. Lord knows he has been in pain ever since that unfortunate day in April. His silence must be enough because Niall lets out an exasperated sigh, passing a hand through his short blond hair.

“I’ve seen him, too. Down at _Pick-A-Book._ He came out with several novels,” Niall glances at him, and must find in his face the answer he needed to continue. He’s accepted that Harry might stick around for longer than he’d have liked it, so he keeps his face devoid of any emotion; he doesn’t allow himself to show just how hurt he is. “He was with an omega.”

He hates the way his heart skips a beat, the way his gut twists in pain, the way his vision goes unfocused. Harry was with an omega, and what about it? He doesn’t care. He _doesn’t._ Niall has gone silent next to him, and he bids the blond omega goodbye once they’ve reached his house. Before he can step through the fence, Niall holds him back.

“I’m sorry, Lou,” he whispers, and Louis jerks his head.

He walks quickly to the porch and throws open the door. The moment it clicks shut, the tears spill over. 

  
  


-

  
  


The snow has begun melting as the sun makes its first appearance of the season. It peeks shyly from behind the clouds as he watches from his window. There are bags underneath his eyes, and he’s practically living on coffee at this point. Truth is, he’s been thinking about Harry’s stoic face, about the lack of expression when back to when they were together, Harry was a ball of sunshine, goofy and happy-go-lucky. He wonders what happened to his Harry, that has led to such a drastic change of character.

 _War._ He knows it’s the answer, and sadness befalls him. He isn’t daft. He knows the media has kept the reality of the war from them, knows that the articles he’s read were romanticized versions of what was really going on abroad. He’s never given it much thought though. And now he regrets not doing it.

The black tote bag is still propped up against the wall, glaring at him. He should return it, but he doesn’t even know where the alpha is, and he’s not desperate enough to take it everywhere with him in case he ends up randomly bumping into Harry. He drinks the last drops of coffee and goes to wash his cup, then he grabs a cloth and dries them. He’s about to grab a book and go read by the window when he catches sight of his garden, and his shoulders slump. _Right, why not?_ He jogs to his bedroom and slides on a thin cardigan, enrolls gloves over his hands, and practically ransacks his entire house, trying to find something adequate to cut overgrown weed. He lets out a triumphant _ha!_ when he finds shears.

The earthy, petrichor smell reaches him, mixed up with a tint of muddy water, and he crouches down to the three stone steps leading up to his porch. He starts cutting the overgrown grass, making sure to go for the base. The long, colourless strands tickle his forearms, and for the first fifteen minutes or so, he doesn’t mind it, but then when his back and shoulders begin to ache from bending down and a bug bites his ankle, he gives up. He groans and is about to hurry back to his house when he sees his mailbox. He hasn’t checked it in a while, so he makes his way to it on his tip-toes, half-scared he’ll get another bite from another annoying, nasty bug. He can feel his ankle starting to itch.

He grabs the pile of mail and snaps the box closed, then he goes back inside of his house. He throws the offending shears somewhere towards the dining room, and sorts through the papers. He puts the bills to the side, and is about to throw the ads to the trash when one of them catches his eyes. It stands out of the lot because it’s a single sheet, and he takes it and his eyes scan over the few printed words. 

_The war leaves our alphas broken,  
They can’t sleep, plagued by nightmares.  
Dreamland is a program designed by two scientists;  
Richard Handerson and Pauline Sanders.  
It aims at helping out traumatised soldiers find inner peace by platonically pairing up one willing omega with one alpha. Studies have proved that an alpha is able to overcome some of their trauma with an omega’s pheromones next to them.  
If you are interested, you are welcome to come by the program’s offices at the following address: —_

He bites his lips and sits down, reading and re-reading the flyer. A program to help ex-soldiers sleep? It’s something he usually wouldn’t consider, but he’s been feeling so alone, and he needs something to take his mind off Harry. Who knows? Maybe he’ll end up with a nice alpha. His body has been yearning for touch, and he’s been cuddling Niall more and more. 

He carefully folds the paper and slips it in his pocket.

  
  


-

  
  


He goes to the office after a long day at work. Night hasn’t quite settled in, but it’s a close fit, and he figured that at this specific time of the day, no one will see him going… _there._ There’s nothing wrong about what he’s about to do, he’s glad he gets to help someone in need, but he’d rather escape Rachel’s hawk-eyes or Joceline’s raised eyebrow. He hasn’t told Niall neither, knowing his friend would have worried tenfold. He glances several times at the address and starts to walk in the direction. It’s an area of Whitby he’s never been to, further up north and at least thirty-five minutes away by foot. He braces himself for the long journey, which he knows will take even longer since he rests assured he’ll end up lost. And he’s right; he has to ask several people for directions, and they’re all kind enough to point them to him.

The houses practically all look the same; their roofs are made out of thousands of bleached red wood shingles, the rain having stolen away their once glossy coat. The walls are painted a white that might once have been pristine. They wear their ages in the form of chipped pain and black paths of soil. Overgrown weeds climb up their sides, drops of water fall from pipes, creating dirty pools as they meet the ground. He bypasses them all, his eyes taking in the faint mist as it travels through the gaunt, winter-beaten tree trunks. His boots squelch slightly as they sink into the mud, and the birds are becoming scarce the more he progresses through the city. Bikes are propped up against soil-tainted walls while their owners pop up at the nearest pub to drown the day’s sorrow into a pint, much like the sailors who, in the morning, strip down to become drunkards wedded to their nip of gin. He offers a small smile at a woman who’s busy hanging up children’s sized clothes. Her tired, tired eyes blink at him, and her thin, colourless lips stretch into a smile of her own.

Dreamland’s office is quaint and blends with the neighbour like two drops of gouache paint. Even from the distance, he can tell it is clinically decorated; the walls are painted white, and the industrial light filtering through the glass windows cast a slight glow over the sidewalk as the sun deems in intensity to leave place to the gloom of the night. When he finally finds it in himself to step inside, the decor is a sad sight to the eyes except for several plotted pants that stand, frozen in time, in several corners. He nervously twists his fingers as he takes in the poster on the wall, reading, ‘ _Dreamland,’_ with the drawing of a happy couple. He’s alone, he realises, and his shoulders drop in silent relief. His eyes find a beta sitting behind the counter and flipping through thick files, the only other presence besides himself. Several, red closed doors spike his curiosity. 

The beta’s eyes snap to him, and a beaming smile is sent his way. He manages to relax even more and, tentatively, he smiles back.

“Good evening, sir!” he exclaims, pushing his reading glasses further up his nose with his forefinger. “What can I do for you?”

Louis flounders for a moment, blinking at the beta, unsure of what to say. _Hi, I’m here for the Dreamland program?_ or maybe, _I wish to be paired up with an alpha?_ would be more straight-forward? But then the latter sounds a tad too blunt to be considered as proper. He frowns and is only slightly relieved when the beta stands up and rounds his desk. His eyes are understanding, and he gestures for Louis to take a seat.

“Are you there for the Dreamland program?” 

He nods, bringing his hands to his lap, intertwining his fingers together.

The beta hums. “I’ll fetch a form for you, be right back!”

As the seconds tick by, he can’t help but wonders, _what the hell am I doing?._ He’s considering getting up and escaping through the door when the kind-looking beta comes back and hands him several sheets of paper, as well as a pen.

“Just fill this form out, alright?” he gives Louis a reassuring smile. “Please, be as truthful as possible, this is so we can find a suitable partner for you.”

He jerks his head to show that he understood, and then glances down at the bundle of papers. The form is rather basic, asking him, on the first page, basic information such as his name, his date of birth, his weight, his height, and other things that he doesn’t have to think about to fill out. But then as he turns the page, the questions progressively become more and more personal, asking for his hobbies, his favourite authors, his favourite places to go. It takes him longer than he anticipated to fill the form in its entirety, and when he chances a glance out the window, night has already fallen. His handwriting is slightly messy, nerves making his hands twitch, resulting in some letters going wobbly. Once he is satisfied with all of his answers, he passes the file over to the beta, who quickly flips through, making sure the information is all filled out, then he offers Louis a smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Tomlinson. We will contact you shortly to come to a group meeting, where you’ll be told further information about the program.”

He nods, and as he steps outside, his heart feels several tons lighter than it did before.

  
  


-

  
  


Rachel applies a fresh layer of lipstick on her plump lips, smacking them to spread the product around. Next to her, Joceline is brooding, her eyes twitching whenever she exhales. He doesn’t know what to do, to be honest, and he exchanges a quick glance with Niall, who shrugs, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I don’t know what you want us to do about it,” Rachel sighs, capping her lipstick back and angling her body towards Joceline, cocking her hips. “If he doesn’t want it, then don’t do it.”

Joceline throws her hands in the air. “It’s his _birthday!_ He hasn’t celebrated a proper one in years! A party will be amazing to get him to socialise. All he does is stay in his bedroom, doing Lord-knows-what.”

He can’t believe she dragged them to their favourite café’s restroom to rant about her brother not wanting a birthday party. He clears his throat, looking at her cautiously as her attention snaps to him. “Maybe that’s what he wants? He has just come back from war, Joce, he needs some peace.”

She purses her lips and looks at them. Then, she makes her way to the door, throwing it open. 

“I’ll tell you when to come.”

She disappears, leaving in her wake the faint perfume of patchouli. Rachel scoffs and chases after her, probably trying to talk some sense into her. He doesn’t have the strength to do the same and instead, he walks to the sink and splashes lukewarm water over his face. When he looks up, his blue eyes stare back at him. Hair has started to grow over his cheeks, and he knows he’ll end up shaving once he’s back to his house. 

“Can we get out of here?” Niall sighs, and after turning off the water and using some tissues to dry his face lest the water will freeze once he steps outside, he exits the restroom and into the busy café. 

He navigates through the individual tables, smiling to a few familiar faces and squinting his eyes when he notices newcomers. All of them are alphas, and he quickly comes to the conclusion that these are soldiers. He can’t recognise a lot of them, but he flushes when he sees several pairs of eyes appraising him, and he glues himself to Niall’s back, hiding his flaming cheeks by turning his head towards the window. What if he gets partnered up with one of these alphas? His lower belly twists and, as he steps outside, the gentle breeze is welcoming and helps cool down his burning belly. Maybe he should have thought better before going into the program. He licks his lips and glances at Niall.

Maybe he should talk about it to his best friend? But then he’s afraid that he’ll get a proper scolding for being so reckless. He munches on his bottom lip as they cross the road, walking by a flower shop. Bouquets of sunflowers, roses, amaryllises, tulips and forget-me-nots bring colours to the otherwise dull landscape; Whitby, at this time of the year, hasn’t seen the sun for several months. The frosted breezes have taken with them the warmth of the houses and the snow has kept people trapped within their houses. He lets the tips of his digits caress one of the sunflower’s petals.

“Niall?” he begins, his voice barely above a whisper. The lack of souls around them contribute to Niall hearing him despite his low voice, and not even the quiet hissing of the wind is enough to block the flow of the words as they fly to the other omega. Niall hums, glancing at him and leaning closer.

He bites his lips. “Have you heard of Dreamland?”

The blond omega frowns, his arms dangling loosely by his sides. He tilts his head in thoughts, pursing his lips. “I’m afraid that I haven’t, why?” Before he can open his mouth and explain it, Niall narrows his eyes, leaning further down to whisper in Louis’ ear. “Is that code for drugs?”

He guffaws, slapping his hand over his mouth. His eyes crinkle and his body shake, and he shakes his head, pushing the other laughing omega away. They wipe their tears, and he takes a deep breath and decides to be straight-forward.

“It’s a program that helps traumatised alpha soldiers.”

Niall raises an eyebrow and hums, his eyes searching all over Louis’ face as they turn a corner and into the street that holds the grocery store. Niall jerks his head towards it and he hums, understanding that the other omega needs to grab a few things. They step through the threshold and Niall grabs a basket. As they progress further into the store, his heartbeat picks up, especially when Niall tells him he needs some vegetables. He can still remember when he last came. Harry had been there, and he remembers their conversation… he remembers how rude he had been. His cheeks flush in guilt, and his mind flashes back to the lone tote bag. He should give it back as soon as possible.

He’s pulled out of his daydreams when Niall snaps his fingers in front of his face.

He blinks. “What?”

Niall rolls his eyes and throws several cucumbers in the half-full basket. “I asked, help soldiers how?”

It takes him a few seconds to put his thoughts into place, and to remember that indeed he told Niall about Dreamland. He bites his lips and pushes his hands in his coat’s pockets, following Niall to the check-out.

“Hm,” he rubs his cheek. “I don’t exactly know. There’s a meeting that’s scheduled very soon, to tell us what we will be doing. It’s platonic, though. I think it’s something about omega’s pheromones. It can help an alpha calm down.”

Niall dumps the items for the bored young beta to scan, his eyes never leaving Louis.

“Ok? Is that safe?”

 _I don’t know,_ he wants to say. _I think it is._ The program surely sounded professional, and although it’s fairly new, he somehow trusts it. He shrugs and adds a chocolate bar to the lot, blinking innocently when Niall raises an eyebrow. They step outside, and Niall turns around to face him, his bag swinging in the process.

“Louis,” he says seriously. “Did you sign up to this program?”

His silence is enough answer, and Niall groans, throwing one hand in the air. “Why?” he asks, passing the chocolate bar over when Louis makes grabby hands. Once again, he shrugs, pretending that the decision has been spontaneous. In reality, green, expressionless eyes and soft-looking curls taint his thoughts until he has to glance down to hide the flush that’s slowly, but surely, creeping up his chest with one goal: the apples of his cheeks. He knows Niall disapproves, but he’s still glad when the blond omega reaches for him and puts his arm through his own.

“Just,” he sighs, kissing Louis’ temples. “Just be careful.”

 _I will,_ he silently promises while chewing around the candy bar.

What’s the worst that can happen?

  
  


-

  
  


The meeting session takes place a Saturday morning, meaning that he’ll be going when the dawn is breaking. He throws his legs to the side and stands up, stretching and yawning. His sore muscles stretch and he moans happily, then he makes his way to the bathroom. There he brushes his teeth and takes a hot shower, the steam fogging up the mirrors and making his hair become damp. His mind is plagued with something though; what if he meets an omega he knows at the meeting? Only Niall knows he’s signed up to the program, and while he isn’t ashamed, he just… isn’t ready for the news to spread across Whitby. He’ll never hear the end of it from Joceline. 

He dresses into a soft jumper, fitted trousers, and his faithful boots. At such an hour in the morning, the sun hasn’t had enough time to warm up the soil, or to suck away some of the frost that the night had allowed to lie down over the landscape. With a sigh, he grabs an apple that he washes quickly under lukewarm water. Then, taking a bite, he steps out of the house and jogs down the stone steps. He pouts at his messy garden. If only it could take care of itself! He should maybe pay someone to do it. Or just get Niall to the task. His lips twitch as he pictures the blond omega fighting with the weed and shrieking whenever a bug manifests its presence.

He makes the same path that he did all those days ago, when he went to fill out the form. As the sky turns several shades, from purple to orange to grey, the walk seems to be a lot less long. Indeed, being able to see Whitby so early, when the houses are still closed and the streets still silent. Only the chirping of the birds disturb it, as well as the gentle waves of the river as they meet the rocks that make up the port. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes; the air is significantly fresher than back when he lived in London, and he can say that without a shadow of doubt because even after all these years, he can remember the stuffy hair of the great capital.

He gulps, trying not to think about how that soiled air had tainted his relationship.

 _Now is not the time for depressing thoughts,_ he tells himself as he walks up the path that leads to the public fountain. He bypasses it and goes further west, where the trees grow more abundant, their nakedness predominant as they contrast against the squashed houses. He bites one last time in the hard flesh of the apple, then throws its core in a passing trash bin.

Dreamland’s office stands innocently between a bakery and a three-story building, and through the windows he can already see that several chairs are taken by what he assumes are omegas. Biting his lip, and slightly nervous, he slowly makes his way to the door, and taking a deep breath, he pushes it open.

Instantly, the wedding of omega scents assault his senses, making him blink at the wall facing him. There are six omegas sitting in a circle along with the beta, Benjamin, that had given him the form. He spots Louis right away, beaming and waving his hand in the air. A small smile appears on Louis’ face and he shyly waves back, scanning the few omegas and relaxing when he doesn’t find any familiar faces.

“Come!” Benjamin gushes out, pulling a chair from the corner and adding it to the almost closed circle. He has to cross the middle to get to it, and he rushes to the seat, biting his lip as Benjamin claps his hands, making the idle chatter die down. While Benjamin introduces himself properly, he scans the group. Most of the omegas are young, probably around his age. It makes him feel a bit more sure about participating in the program, and he focuses his attention back on Benjamin. He’s wearing his usual white blouse, brown slacks, and a black button down, and his glasses keep sliding down his nose, but he keeps pushing it back up.

“I’m so glad that you decided to join Dreamland, and contribute to helping out our soldiers. I know that a lot of you are there to know what being in the program entails,” he makes sure to span his attention to every omega, his kind eyes glancing over them quickly. “As the flyer said, this program is a platonic one. It aims at matching up omegas with alphas that struggle from post-war trauma. Most of the alphas that signed up to the therapy suffer from insomnia, but trauma can include distress, loss of appetite, mood swings among which anger issues can be counted, depression, and withdrawal. Richard Handerson, an alpha scientist, and Pauline Sanders, an omega scientist, were able to conduct research that proved the strength an omega’s pheromones can have over an alpha.”

Several omegas nod their understanding, and Benjamin continues.

“This program has already begun operating in France, Russia, and the United States several months ago. The results were astonishing; every single alpha that sought help with us had been able to live with their trauma better. Keep in mind that a traumatizing event can never be erased from someone’s memory, but one can learn to live with it. The alphas that are in Dreamland, they can’t do that. They suffer from insomnia, unable to sleep due to chronic nightmares. Depression seizes them and doesn’t let go; sometimes they don’t eat for days on end without even realizing. War is a deeply traumatizing experience. Of course, some cope better than others. But there are soldiers that come back completely broken.”

Louis shivers as dead, cold green eyes appear in his vision.

Benjamin offers them a serene smile. “I know it’s not easy for omegas to willingly accept to be paired up with strangers, but the program puts your safety first. You will be given a bracelet with a button that, once pressed, contacts directly both the program and the nearest police station. The alpha will be arrested and punished accordingly should he try to assault you in any way.”

A red-headed omega raises her hand, and Benjamin nods at her. “Have any… accidents happened before?”

“No,” the beta answers, smiling gratefully at the omega, probably glad that the question was asked. “The alphas are all aware that you are here for their well-being and that you might be their one-way ticket to a better life. You’ll be surprised just how efficient omega’s pheromones are.”

Another hand shoots up in the air. “What will we have to do exactly? And if we don’t like it, can we drop out of the program?”

“I’ll answer your second question first,” Benjamin crosses his arms over his chest. “You can drop out anytime you want. You didn’t sign anything. This is a charity program, it’s non-binding; you all are here because you want to help. Should you not like how the program works, you can walk out of that door and never come back. Now, the whole point of this program is for the omega to spend some time with the alpha, so that the latter can bath in the former’s pheromones. Usually, we assign you specific times of the day when your presence will be needed. If the alpha suffers from loss of appetite, then the omega is welcome to spend lunch and dinner with the alpha.”

Benjamin straightens up. “Now, the trickiest response to trauma is insomnia, and it’s also the trickiest one to offer our services to. If the omega is willing, they can spend the night with the alpha. This is _only_ to sleep, and I want to emphasise that. Our program is platonic. The omega’s pheromones can help soothe the alpha’s inner distress, and thus reduce the frequency of nightmares. But if the omega is unwilling to spend the night at the alpha’s, it’s possible to plan nap sessions here at the office. If an alpha bathes long enough in an omega’s pheromones, it can trigger their memory to bring up that scent whenever their distress grows too overbearing, until overtime they won’t need the omega anymore and said memory will be enough to block the nightmares from happening. But this process will take a lot longer - estimations have predicted that an entire year of treatment is necessary for satisfactory results. The overnight treatment was proven efficient after four months only.”

He tries to picture himself sleeping with a stranger, and he can’t tell whether the shiver that goes through his body is from the thrill that comes with going into such a foreign experience, or from the growing apprehension within him, twisting his guts. He believes it when Benjamin says that the program is safe, but there’s still the lingering _what if?_ and he honestly can’t put into words how he truly feels about it all. He remains silent though and keeps his ears open and Benjamin answers a few questions. _Are we going to begin the therapy as soon as we’ve met the alpha? No,_ Benjamin answers. _You’ll be going on several dates with the alpha to get to know them better, then you’ll choose whether you want to go through with the therapy. If not, you can choose to be paired up with another alpha, or to drop out of the program completely._

 _When will it begin?_ another omega asks, and Benjamins answers; _you will be contacted shortly after this meeting once you’ve been matched. Then, you’ll be given a place and a date to meet with the alpha. After each meeting you’ll have a small form to fill so that we know, meeting after meeting, if the alpha is compatible with you, and if you feel safe around them._

The red-headed girl asks one last question that makes his heart ache. _Why do the alphas need the program to find an omega to help them?_ to which Benjamin responded: _because some of them are too damaged to find one._

  
  


-

  
  


Louis’ surprised when three days after the meeting, he receives a letter stating that he has been matched already. He scans the printed words again and again, and each time everything becomes a little bit more real. He caresses the paper with his fingers, and tucks it in a box that used to keep his tea bags. While waiting for Niall to come by, he cleans the house. He wipes the furniture, gathers the thin layer of dust that has covered the tiles into a pile, and does the dishes after two days worth of piled-up plates and glasses. A knock at his door has him know that Niall has arrived, and while drying his hand on a cloth he throws it open, smiling at the blond omega.

“Guess what,” Niall beams, holding up a bag full of food and shaking it slightly as he steps into the house. He gives Niall a toothy smile.

“I’m glad you thought of buying food, because I legit didn’t cook anything,” he says while going back to the kitchen, where he puts the kettle on. Niall puts the bag full of food down and takes out of it roasted potatoes, buttery chicken, rolls, vegetables, and cheesecakes. At the sight of the dessert, saliva floods his mouth; he can already imagine eating it while drinking his tea. He hurries to fill two cups with steaming hot water, then adds milk, and he brings them to the dining table. The white tablecloth contrasts beautifully as Niall opens the boxes, and the golden chicken comes into view. He fetches two plates and several spoons as well as forks, and sits down, letting himself be served by the blond omega.

He brings the cup of tea to his lips and sips the brownish liquid.

“How have you been?” Niall asks him, and it’s obvious he’s referring to the meeting, wanting to know how it went. He licks his lips and thinks about his answer.

“Well,” he finally settles on, twirling the spoon around the cup, making clinking sounds as its curved back meets the porcelain.”It was very informative, and I’m sure it will be a great experience.”

The look that Niall gives him makes him flush and stare hard at a random spot on the table.

“You sure this has nothing to do with Harry?” Niall whispers, and he hates how he flinches upon hearing the name, how five letters hold so much power over him that his heartbeat picks up and that his hands turn clammy. He unconsciously glances to the tote bag, still propped up innocently against the wall. Since then, the scent that has lingered over it has faded away, going out of the window and joining the frosted fragrance of the winter, and he still can’t tell whether he is glad for it, or bothered that the tote bag has been reduced to just that — a tote bag, a piece of stitched fabric. It doesn’t hold any meaning anymore since he now struggles relating it to Harry.

He should be glad that, upon gazing at the inanimate object, all he sees is the concrete, but deep down he misses the imperceptible, _haunting_ smell of the source for his pain. Maybe he is a masochist, after all. Perhaps he’s come to feel alive whenever the healing wound in his heart is ripped open again.

“Sure,” he answers, nodding, trying to sound convinced; but they both know this is a lie.

Six years is a long time; for some, it’s the shift from childhood to teen years. For others, it’s the metamorphosis from teenager to adult; it’s the delicate caress of time as it’s about to turn a decade older. Six years is a long time, and yet it’s not enough; because six years later, he’s still in love with the alpha that broke him.

The only difference now is that he’s seeking a distraction; something that will pull him out of the pit of sorrow he dug himself. He hopes that, by sharing an alpha’s bed, he’ll get accustomed to another scent, to another body, to another voice. Then maybe, and he hopes with every fibre of his being that it’ll work, he’ll get to find the medicine he’s been yearning for all along.

  
  


-

  
  


Magenta blends with orange as the dawn pushes away the gloom of the night. The spectacle it has offered as he’s watched it from his window has tattooed itself in his brain so that, even as he makes his way to Dreamland’s office, it’s not the dull grey sky or the thick clouds that taint his vision. He’s got a cup of coffee in his hand, his name scrawled messily on the side. His boots have turned damp from the faint drizzle that began several minutes after he stepped out of his house. His garden has worsened. With the constant downpour, the remaining evidence of which can be found by the gentle drops of water falling from the roof’s ledge, has allowed the grass to grow at an exceptional rate. He’s practically knee-deep into it whenever he steps down his porch. 

He will take care of it, he’s promised it. He just hasn’t defined the day. 

He pushes the pathetic sight of his garden out of his mind as Dreamland’s office comes into view. Throwing his head back to drink the last gulps of coffee, he then throws the empty cup into the trash bin and pushes open the door. Benjamin greets him again, his dark hair contrasting spectacularly with his white blouse and the white wall behind him.

“Louis!” he smiles, urging the omega over. He goes willingly, his fingers tight around the strap of his bag, both because of nervousness and excitement. As if reading his mind, Benjamin asks, “Excited?”

“You have no idea,” he answers sincerely, and they both exchange knowing smiles.

“Alright,” Benjamin licks his lips as he goes over the file in his hand. “Three alphas have expressed their interests in your file, but we picked out the one that seemed to match your hobbies and tastes the most. Since this program is strongly based on spending time together, talking it out, and figuring out if the alpha you were matched with gets along well with you, it is important for us to make sure the first impression goes well. That is why you won’t be told the name of the alpha, just like the alpha won’t know yours. That way, the first meeting between you and the alpha will be completely raw.”

The idea of not even knowing the alpha’s name leaves him slightly anxious, but he nods nonetheless. He’s thought of telling Niall as much as about the alpha as possible, in case he goes missing. Benjamin hands him a single sheet of paper, with a handful of information regarding the alpha he’ll be meeting. He sits down and starts to read, the first piece of information given to him being that the alpha he’ll meet up with loves poetry. His lips twitch in a smile, and it widens as he progresses further down the sheet. The alpha likes pudding, is fond of ducklings, and prefers tea over coffee. Then, at the very end, he sees a single line summing up why the alpha sought out the help of the program.

_Chronic nightmares and slight anger issues._

“Don’t worry,” Benjamin tells him. “You’ll be meeting somewhere public. Here.”

Benjamin hands him a purple box, and when he opens it an elegant and delicate bracelet sits among the cushion. On the side, rather discreet, there’s a button. He nods his gratitude, and hands over the sheet, getting in exchange another piece of paper with a date and an address printed on the front. He doesn’t read it quite yet, instead folding it carefully and putting it in his bag. Then he walks out, ready to go to the school and begin a long day of work filled with colour pencils and innocent laughter. The weather-light paper in his satchel burns through the fabric, and it feels good to have something to look forward to. 

  
  


-

  
  


The meeting happens at a café that he’s never been to before, but it isn’t far away. He dresses into his best clothes, consisting of a soft, flowery button down, a pair of fitted pants that do wonders to his arse, and he pairs the outfit up with suspenders. He takes time styling his hair, and even goes as far as brushing a bit of liquid blush over his cheeks, although he knows it isn’t all that necessary since the cold is enough to turn his skin rosy. His eyes catch the purple box, and he opens it, biting his lip as he takes in the jewel. He slips on his wrist, relieved when it fits perfectly. Then as he nears the door, he slips his boots on and, taking a deep breath, steps out of the house.

Finding the café proves to be a difficult affair; he gets lost and has to ask directions, then he has trouble finding it as it is painted in various shades of brown, from beige to mahogany, which blends with the surrounding houses. Despite it being a foreign café, he relaxes at the sight. It gives off a warm vibe, and there are several people hanging out of it, smoking, and even more people inside. Laughter filters out of the door as he pushes it open, and as he enters, the smell of grounded coffee beans fills his nostrils, and he smiles as he spots several stunning paintings. It’s one of his favourite things to do: looking out for paintings. Back in London he used to go to art exhibitions, but Whitby seldom holds any, so he’s taken to watching out for pieces of work whenever he goes somewhere new. 

He glances at the grandfather clock; he’s several minutes earlier than the time printed on the paper, but he actually prefers it. It leaves him the choice to choose the table, and he goes for the one nearest the window, so that way he can enjoy the morning mist as it travels through the streets. He sits down and orders a cappuccino. He hasn’t slept all that well, the nerves and expectations keeping him awake.

His cappuccino is put down before him, and he gives the waiter a smile while bringing the cup to his mouth. He blows over it until he’s sure the liquid has cooled down enough so that he doesn’t end up burning his tongue. It’d be an unfortunate event, minutes before he’s meant to meet up with. He plays with the bracelet, his finger caressing it. Then he takes a sip and hums as the sweet liquid bathes his taste buds in subtle euphoria. He’s about to put the cup down when a familiar voice comes from behind him.

“Louis?”

He promptly chokes on the coffee, coughing and spluttering. He flushes bright red and it becomes even worse when he feels a large hand rubbing circles on his back. The velvet colour on his cheeks crawl down his neck, spreading across his chest, and he begins to sweat. When he glances to the side, it’s to find Harry standing close to him, a worried expression on his face.

Up close he can see the specks of gold contrasting with those green orbs, a bit like blurry circles of sunlight against the canopy of a rainforest. He looks down and breathes harshly through his nose, occasionally coughing, jolting his heart in the process. 

“What are you doing here?” he manages to croak out between two coughs, his eyes bulging out when Harry slides in the seat before him. He digs the soles of his boots harder in the ground to keep his knees from bouncing out of nerves. What is _he_ doing here? Of all places? Of all hours? He stares hard at the cappuccino, silence falling between them, heavy. His nostrils are assaulted by the strong sandalwood and vanilla-infused scent, potent enough to cocoon them and create a bubble around their table, so that in the end they’re separated from the world outside of it. He panics slightly; what if the alpha he’s meant to meet shows up, but he doesn’t see him because Harry is in his seat? 

He braces himself and looks up, meeting straight on Harry’s stoic eyes. They’re assessing him and, in the process, setting his insides on fire. He can still feel Harry’s handprint on his back, heating up the fabric, melting it, the heat getting to his skin, penetrating it, killing his nerves and sparking pain. His fingers shake slightly around the cup, and he quickly pulls them off the table and pushes them underneath his thighs. He doesn’t know what to say, or what to do.

Harry’s still watching him cautiously, his expression guarded, offering an odd wedding paired up with his broad, tall body. He makes the table look so small. He’s hunched over, his elbows resting over the tablecloth, and if he didn’t know better he’d say Harry is _scared_ of him. This acts as if a bucket of melted snow had been thrown over him, and he looks at Harry, properly looks at him. He sees profound dark circles, a complexion that’s devoid of colour, chapped lips that bleed from being bitten repeatedly. He gulps and manages to soften, his fingers stopping shaking (only slightly). He takes in the exhausted droop of Harry’s shoulders, as well as the emptiness that dwells within those green irises. 

He doesn’t mean to, but despite himself he thinks back to his life six years ago; before the fights, the tears, the heartbreaks. He remembers a tall alpha who loved baby animals, who was always up to partying, who wanted to have fun, who had eyes that shone brighter than New York city at twilight. He remembers the dimples that would never leave Harry’s face and the confident way with which he strolled around. The memories that come barreling to his brain like a bull towards a piece of red fabric serve as evidence that the Harry Styles before him is only the shell of the man he used to be.

He glances at the grandfather clock; it’s ten minutes past the rendez-vous’ assigned time. As he looks around, he doesn’t spot any lone alpha looking for him. Everyone has got their partner, their mouths opened in laughter, though he can’t even hear them over the steady buzzing in his ears. He swallows down the ball of saliva that threatens to explode, and, with a resolute expression on his face, he turns to Harry.

He deflates the moment his eyes fall on Harry’s face though, and he can’t believe he can’t find the strength to carry through a conversation with his ex-boyfriend, like two normal people. _But this situation is anything but abnormal,_ that annoying little voice nags him, and he clenches his jaw. Harry takes a deep breath and seems to try to blend furthermore with the wall as the waiter comes back, offering them a smile as he puts down several pastries from banoffee pie to Bakewell tart, as well as tea and milk.

“Thank you,” Harry rushes out, taking the spoons and carefully placing one next to his hand. All he can do is stare as the alpha gently pushes the banoffee pie towards him, rearranging the table so that everything is in order; his now cold cappuccino is pushed to the side, and with clumsy, nervous fingers, Harry prepares his tea.

Just like that.

He puts the tea bag in the cup; pours the steaming hot water; adds the perfect amount of milk; and skips the sugar completely. He prepares Louis’ tea as if he had been doing it everyday, when in truth, he hasn't had to do it for six years. The saucer is placed next to the pie, which is one of his all time favourites. He wants to ask so many things; _when did you order all this? What are you doing here? Why are you sitting with me? What does it mean?_ but then his heart drops to his guts when he slowly, but surely, realizes that the alpha he was supposed to meet is, indeed, right in front of him.

The grandfather clock chimes: half an hour has gone by. It doesn’t feel like it and his eyes widen in surprise when he sees just how long he’s been sitting next to the window, the clouds moving gently across the sky, with Harry in front him. He struggles making sense of how he feels. Part of him has been pushed under water, and is kicking and flailing its limbs to try and go back to the surface. Another one has been locked outside a storm, and is left shivering as the ice cold water falls upon it. He opens his mouth to say something, and he expects the words to come out to be elaborate, but his brain turns to mush, and instead he does a lapsus.

“This is awkward,” he blurts out, his eyes widening and his hand twitching, wanting to fly to his treacherous mouth to cover it. He snaps his attention to the cobblestone sidewalk outside, focusing on its slight shimmer as the water reflects the frosted sunlight, creating rainbow colours. He’s praying hard for the ground to open up and swallow him down when a soft little laugh fill the air between them, and as he looks at Harry out of the corner of his eyes, he’s met with the ghost of a lopsided smile that allows one dimple to appear, though it isn’t as deep as it really is - Harry’s face is still hesitant, stoic, but there’s still that gentle little smile, that melody of his deep voice as he laughed, and somehow, he manages to soften.

Harry needs his help. The alpha had reached out to him, well, at least unconsciously, through the program not because he wanted to, but because he needed it. _Chronic nightmares and slight anger issues._ He thinks back to the grocery store, when Harry’s hand had shook, when he dropped his tote bag full of groceries and stormed out of the store, leaving in his wake his haunting scent, which had turned bitter under the extent of his anger. He sighs and picks up his spoon, cuts a piece of banoffee pie, and brings it to his mouth. The sweet taste of banana and toffee rocks his taste buds, wakes them up, and as Harry watches him chew, he thinks, _he can do this._

“So,” he begins, licking cream off his teeth. “The Dreamland program?”

He kind of regrets bringing it up already; Harry’s expression darkens, the faint smile that had appeared on his face disappearing completely, leaving the stone-faced alpha he’s seen the first few times he’s encountered him. It disturbs him enough to ignite guilt, the feeling twisting his guts, but then again, what was he supposed to say? He doesn’t think he needs to get to know his ex-boyfriend again, so he might as well go straight to the point. 

_Ex-boyfriend that you haven’t seen in six years._ Six years is a long time to change. Mentally, he purses his lips. He’s about to open his mouth and apologise when Harry clears his throat, leaning back against his chair. Accidentally, Harry knocks his foot against Louis’, the limb hard because of the boots; but hastily, Harry tucks his feet underneath his chair, a grimace gracing his features. Louis tries to make himself as small as possible, something which Harry notices, resulting in him clenching his jaw, his nose flaring. He watches the alpha in slight confusion, which deepens as the alpha brings his quaint cup of black coffee to his lips, drowning it in one go. Then, he lets the cup bangs against the saucer, and he hastily stands up, his conflicted eyes on Louis.

“I’m sorry,” he grits out, then he’s stalking through the café and pushing open the door, practically ripping it off its hinges. For a moment, Louis sits, blinking in disbelief at the door, not even realising the odd looks people are giving him. Then when it registers to his brain that Harry just got up and ran from him, he shoots up and makes a dash for the entrance. As he steps outside, he shivers as the cold air slips underneath his button down; he forgot to put on his coat. But instead of going back inside to get it, he starts to run after Harry’s retreating figure. The alpha looks tall compared to the people that rush by him, but in reality, as he hunches over to fight against the chilled wind - he looks like a castaway coming back and having to face the vast, cruel world. He seems crushed by an invisible weight.

He looks alone, and small. _Vulnerable._ A birthday blow from the wind is all it would take for the soil making up the alpha’s existence to fade into nothingness.

Louis’ heart pangs and he crosses the road, almost slipping over the wet cement.

“Harry!” he calls out, and the alpha slows down, though he doesn’t stop. It makes Louis’ jaw clench but he pushes on and, once he is close enough, his fingers manage to pinch the hard fabric of Harry’s coat. When he tries to circle Harry’s bicep, he can barely cover half of it, but still Harry stops and glances over his shoulder. Their eyes meet, and he thinks they must be a sight to other eyes; an alpha who is being stopped by an omega, unable to move, frozen in the middle of the street. His heart is beating too fast to be deemed normal, and it doesn’t help that Harry’s eyes are so intense, the mossy green almost gone. He tentatively lets go of the bulging bicep, taking a step back to clear his head; with Harry’s scent seeping into the air, he has a hard time thinking straight, and he knows that if he wants to get through the meeting properly and if he wants to help Harry out, he needs to remain sane.

It’s easier said than done, unfortunately.

“Harry,” he begins carefully, going against the inner voice within him that screams, _get away!_ as he steps forward. Harry’s breathing picks up as he draws closer, and he does something he’s never thought of himself ever doing again; he raises his hands up to Harry’s face and cradles it. The alpha’s skin is slightly rough from the stubble that mars its softness, and the tickling sensation they provoke against the sensitive skin of his palms quickly creeps down his arms and, as it progresses closer to his heart, becomes intense pain _._ _He broke me._ The words echo around his head and collide with his temples like truncheon blows.

_But he needs my help._

His weakness clouds his reason as he steps closer to the alpha, who turns his head to the side, scrunching up his nose, trying to get as far away from him as possible. His heart would have shattered if he didn’t recognise that Harry is holding himself back; that Louis’ scent is affecting him just as much as his own is affecting the omega. If he was able to open his mouth, he’d offer comforting whispers of lies; _it’ll be alright._ Of course it won’t; at least, not yet. _You’re fine, Harry, breathe._ He’s not; neither of them is. But there are times where lies are necessary to carry on. But he can’t bring himself to get them out, can only rub his thumbs over the apple of Harry’s cheeks and allow the alpha to scent him. Harry’s nostrils flare as he breathes in the gentle mix of cinnamon and caramelised sugar. At last, he relaxes, his tense shoulders dropping, his entire body practically falling forward. As green eyes meet blues, Louis sees the former filled to the brim with unadulterated confusion.

He steps back, his hands falling back to his sides, his skin brushing the rough fabric of his trousers.

“I— I have to go,” he blurts out, then he shoulders past the alpha and walks to the unknown; he doesn’t care where he’ll end up, just as long as he’s away enough for the crushing grip over his heart to loosen up.

  
  


-

  
  


He sighs as his vision blurries, and rubbing his temple he lets the newspaper fall onto his lap, it’s tall, spread pages curving over his knees. He hasn’t been able to sleep for several days, his thoughts plagued by green eyes and a scent that just doesn’t want to let go of him. He glances out of the window and is met with the ghostly copy of the sun, the big ball reduced to a gleam as layers of clouds pile up in front of it. The weather hasn’t changed much in the last few days, reflecting his mood; he’s been unnecessarily grumpy and jittery, tossing around in his bed sheets in the dead of the night and practically snapping at Niall whenever the omega did so much as talk to him. The only place where he can manage to kick out of the door of his bad mood is when he’s in his classroom, surrounded by the children. Their bubbly laughs and innocent faces bring out the part within him that doesn’t think about Harry Styles, and he’s two steps away from staying there a lot more, just for the sake of inner peace.

He’s just so _tired._ Both mentally and physically, the latter worrying him. He’s becoming a walking paradox; his brain is unable to settle down, continually gulping down surging memories that he’d rather forget altogether. But his body is ready to collapse, limbs heavy and brittle. His headaches are more frequent and more than once he had to lean against the wall while walking lest he’d collapse on the frozen cement. It’s ridiculous and it _scares_ him, enough to provoke sparks of nightmares in the deepest zone of his brain, resulting in him waking up when it’s still pitch black outside and the katydids and crickets are chirping away, hidden among his garden’s overgrown weed. A cup of tea is usually what he goes for when he’s disturbed from his sleep; and it has the desired effect of relaxing his body and soothing out his headaches, but it isn’t a magic potion and he’s left tired for the rest of the day.

Even Niall notices, his worry shaping itself in frowned brows and the downward tilt of his lips.

“Louis,” he would begin, his icy blue eyes carefully flying all over Louis’ face. But Louis would smile, tense, and brush Niall to the side; he’d dodge whatever it was that Niall was about to say, knowing already what would have curled out of the omega’s mouth had he been allowed to finish his sentence.

“I’m fine,” he’d answer, then he’d go through the hours as if he were fine.

But he isn’t fine, hasn’t been for a while now. He sighs as he tightens the scarf around his neck, burying his nose into its soft cashmere. The wood of the porch has turned slippery as a thin layer of frost has been carefully laid down by the night, supervised by the moon; he steps carefully over it, jutting down in a corner of his brain to get something to scratch it. He’d rather not die slipping down the sharp steps in front of his porch and breaking his neck. He exhales once he’s ankle-deep into blue-tinted grass, and pushes open the fence, letting it softly click shut as it swings back into place on its own. 

The weather has dropped in temperature, manifesting itself in added layers of clothes, gloves, scarves and thicker socks. Snow has yet to fall completely, but drops of it can be seen as sloshy mud become more and more prominent as the white hardened ice melts and mixes with it. He has to take huge steps to dodge them, and he hides his small smile into the camel fabric around his throat. It feels a bit like playing, having to round the big bad pool of mud. He might not be a complete admirer of the cold, but deep down he’s awaiting, with impatience, the arrival of snow to be able to build snowmans.

His fingers curl on themselves where they’re stashed into his coat’s pockets, and soon, as his eyes take in the frozen undulation of the river’s waves which give a bit of life to the otherwise still landscape, he progresses closer to Dreamland’s office. Its front stands as indecipherable as every other day, though he has come to notice the few bits of originality that makes it different from the other bland building; like the little hole at the bottom of the wall near the corner, or the lighter paint on the right side that, if at a good distance away from the building, pops out. It’s as if someone had painted over the original, darker brown colour, trying to match the shades but decidedly failing. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as the headache that has taken residence in his forehead attempts to make its presence known by sending bullets of pain to his temples, then he steps closer to Dreamland’s door and pushes it open.

Benjamin’s smiling face comes into view as soon as he steps through the doorway, and he answers to the beta’s smile by one of his own, though it is tentative, unsure, the expression of his face suddenly plagued by the weight of what he’s about to do; decide whether he still wants to see Harry or not.

He thinks of the anger, of the confusion, of green eyes that had looked at him with a bonfire of emotions crackling within them, the heat of it seeping into his skin and warming up his insides, smoke of pain curling up from it like the steam of boiling water condensing into drops of water. Except, instead of water, it’s acid that runs down to his guts, igniting doubt as to whether carrying through the program is a great idea.

“Louis,” Benjamin smiles, straightening up and, as is his wont, pushing up his nose his loose glasses. “It’s wonderful to see you on this fine morning. What can I do for you?”

He shifts on his soles, licking his bottom lip. “I’m here to fill in the form.”

Benjamin gives him a knowing look. “The meeting?”

Louis jerks his head rather abruptly, and he’s glad when Benjamin doesn’t any more question; simply twists around to grab a single sheet of paper that he lays down on the counter, with a pen. Slowly, he approaches it. Unconsciously, he plays with the tiny strip of skin that stands out on the edge of his thumb, pulling on it, and even though he knows it will hurt like hell if he breaks it, he can’t bring himself to stop.

The pen is a welcoming weight between his digits. Benjamin glances somewhere else, focusing with intent on the opened file before him, and Louis is glad for the semblance of privacy as he puts the tip of the pen on the round paper. 

He doesn’t know anymore if signing up to the program had been a great idea. A part of him, the one he doesn’t like acknowledging, is rejoicing upon seeing Harry again. He’s never quite left Louis’ mind, has always been there even after six long years. The other one though, can’t bear the pain the sight of the alpha provokes, can’t put up with the onslaught of memories that, each time, create another scar against the thin, fragile pericardium that surrounds his aching heart. He thinks back to how the meeting went, to Harry storming out for reasons he has yet to figure out, remembers having to cradle Harry’s face and allow his scent to cocoon them. And he remembers the way Harry’s body had relaxed, because of _him._ He doesn’t know if he should be flattered that his scent still has such a positive effect on his former alpha, or if he should be concerned because this means the program actually works, that his scent can help Harry. 

Several questions linger on the surface of uncertainty. Is he willing to help Harry out? Is he able to ignore the pain he constantly feels whenever he’s around the alpha? Can he bear being so close to Harry, knowing fully well he’ll never have him the way he wants?

 _No,_ that voice in his head shouts from the depth of his conscience. _You can’t!_

Of course he can’t; it’s taken him years to push Harry to the back of his mind, and it took only a second for the overwhelming presence of the alpha to come back to the front of his thoughts; to haunt him day and night, again and again, like a nagging itch underneath his skin.

He stares at the question that glares up at him; _are you willing to meet Mr. Styles again?_

Is he willing? Maybe. Is he ready? Absolutely not.

With his heart beating in his throat, and apprehension creeping from his toes to his chest, he gaudily circles the _‘YES’_ , the printed word tattooing itself underneath his eyelids and causing a flicker of doubt to appear the moment he lays the pen back down on the counter.

  
  


-

  
  


The clicking sound of cups of tea against saucers; the crash of ice cubes as they’re scooped up from frozen buckets; the chatting of people that fades into the background as the man behind the counter calls out orders. All of these meet him as he steps into the ice cream shop, holding himself back from scrunching up his nose. Who thought it a great idea to put his second date at an ice cream shop in the climax of winter? He sighs and glances around for an available table, spotting one rooted to the back of the store. It’s a two-place table. He bites his bottom lip and makes his way to it, quickly sitting down, pushing his frozen hands between his thighs — he forgot to put on his gloves — and waiting for the heat in the store to penetrate his clothes and warm him up.

Quickly enough, a smiling, bright-eyed omega appears next to him, holding a tiny notebook.

“Hello,” she smiles, glancing down at the untouched menu card. “Welcome at _Icicles Crystals!_ Have you made your choice?”

He hasn’t, obviously; the list of printed ice cream flavours lay before him, but he doesn't pick it up. He knows already what he’ll be having. Something simple and creamy that won’t upset his tight stomach. He’s already nervous enough waiting for Harry, not knowing whether he’ll even show up or not. It’s entirely possible that the alpha decides to not come after the disaster of last time. But he hopes that Harry steps through the door, because he wants to try.

He can’t speak for the alpha, though.

He gulps down the nervous ramble that’s about to spill out of his mouth, and manages to keep his voice at a normal level, though it does sound more high-pitched than it usually is.

“A vanilla soft serve, please,” he croaks out, flushing and staring at the wooden table. He hears the soft scratching sound the pen makes as its tip drags over the rough paper of the notebook, and after a bit, during which he reckons the omega ponders whether asking him if he’s alright or not is a great idea, she walks away. He breathes out and puts his forearms over the table, looking up at the painting facing him. It’s a rough sketch of a glass filled to the top with scoops of ice cream. The shadows make it pop out so that the frosting and glaze almost gleam underneath the faint light of the day that filters through the frosted windows. 

What would he have answered? _I’m alright!,_ probably. And that would have been a lie: one that is easy to say, but difficult to convince himself is real. He watches the omega, with her hair pulled tight in a high ponytail, as she pulls onto a machine, soft, vanilla ice cream oozing out of it and straight into a tall ice cream glass. A shiny cherry is placed at its very top, slightly to the side so as to not destroy the pointy tip, and taking a spoon she rounds the counter and comes towards him. He goes back to staring at the painting before him, his mouth opening before he can hold it back from muttering a single word; striking a conversation right now shouldn’t be his goal when Harry could show up anytime. He needs to think about what he’s going to say, craft the conversation he’s going to have with the alpha in a way that won’t repeat the events of last time.

“Who did this?” he blurts out, clearing his throat as the omega looks at him with one raised eyebrow, putting the glass of vanilla soft serve before him and following the direction his finger is pointing at. Her lips twitch, as if she didn’t expect to be asked such a question but is secretly glad that he did.

“My father,” she answers, gripping onto her notebook a bit tighter. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

He nods, his fingers going around the bottom of the glass, feeling the cold that perspires from the ice cream damp his skin, sending goosebumps up his arms. “It’s exquisite,” he answers candidly, surprised by his honesty; he hasn’t been that in what feels like ages, what with trying to hide his feelings to everyone around him. 

And himself, but, he figures this is a detail he’s allowed to push to the back of his mind to focus on more important things. The omega — Bridget, he reads on her name tag that’s pinned to her bosom, to the left — looks at him in pleased astonishment, and she relaxes, her eyes softening as they fly all over his face. He feels odd being scrutinized so openly, but he doesn’t move until she glances over her shoulder, nodding to herself about something he can’t quite figure out. Maybe he would have, had he turned around. Instead, he picks up the long spoon and dumps it in the soft serve, scooping some onto the curved surface and putting it into his mouth. The ice cream instantly melts against his hot tongue, and he hums. It’s delicious, not overly sweet, and the vanilla is prominent. It’s exactly the way he likes it.

“It’s delicious,” he smiles up at Bridget, who has not gone back to focusing on him. 

“Thank you,” she winks. “I made it. I’m glad you like it.”

Before she can say anymore, a throat is cleared from behind her and Louis’ eyes snap to the person behind her; it shouldn’t come as a surprise when he sees Harry, but still, his heart stops in a _I-didn’t-expect-you-there_ way, which is beyond ridiculous. He flushes, unconsciously twirling the spoon around in the ice cream, the creamy cloud slowly becoming liquid. Bridget steps back, though there’s amusement dancing within her irises and — and what? He frowns but she’s gone in an instant, already moving on to another customer while Harry slides in the chair before him. He’s clumsy as he does it, dragging the chair back loudly, making its legs scratch the sleek ground. His tall, prominent body fits itself awkwardly over the chair, and he almost topples over at one point. It triggers a blush, which creeps up the alpha’s neck to rest on the apples of his cheeks, and Louis is caught between being worried, because Harry wasn’t so clumsy before, or being amused at the way the alpha so seemingly struggles finding a comfortable position, his long legs flailing around, trying to fold underneath the small table.

“Sorry,” Harry grimaces as his knee bangs against the table, making it jump slightly. Louis hurries to steady the glass as it threatens to topple over, and before he can control it, a giggle spills from his lips. He uses the back of his hand to try and contain it, but from the way his eyes crinkle and his body shakes from laughter, he knows it’s a futile attempt. For several seconds, Harry watches him, slightly puzzled, but then he also joins in, albeit it’s less loud than Louis’ giggle; instead, his green irises twinkle with mirth as he passes a hand in his long curls, pushing them back from his face.

“You weren’t as clumsy before,” Louis teases, putting another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth, cringing as the cold hurts his teeth. He’s too focused on the nauseating pain to notice the way Harry’s facial expression tenses up, or the way he tucks his legs even closer to himself. There are still drops of mirth in Harry’s eyes as Louis looks up from his soft serve, the alpha’s soft gaze on him.

“You’ve always had sensitive teeth,” the alpha mumbles, almost to himself, and Louis flushes. It has always been a huge, funny difference between them, the way Louis’ teeth are fragile and he has to tuck them away whenever he eats something cold to avoid hurting them, and Harry’s teeth are hard as steel. He _bites_ in his ice cream, for crying out loud! Louis shakes his head fondly, and shrugs.

“‘Haven’t changed all that much over the past few years.”

The air seems to freeze after that, as if, despite the four compact walls and the firmly closed door and windows, the winter’s cold that resides outside manages to seep inside. He regrets the words almost as soon as they’re out, though he doesn’t see why he should; it’s the truth, in the end. Nothing much has changed ever since he’s broken up with Harry. He takes his tea the same way. He always puts on his tee-shirts or sweaters first before his trousers. He isn’t fond of socks but still puts them on for the sake of his toes. He loves reading, usually the same kind of romances that have the kind of happy ending he isn’t sure he’ll ever get to experience. His favorite meal is still steaming hot stew with suet dumplings. He has never come around to liking carrots and beetroots, and eats tomatoes as if they were apples.

He hasn’t really changed. The realization is quite depressing, and he tightens his fingers around the glass, which is now wet from drops of water sliding down its sides, wetting the tablecloth on which it is resting. And maybe saying it out loud, in front of Harry, hasn’t been that great of an idea. He’s waving a big red flag saying, _hey! Look Harry! I’m still the same omega you used to love, even after six long years!_ and it makes his guts twist uncomfortably. Back then, they hadn't been able to hold it together because they never wanted the same things; he wanted to move to Whitby to escape the bustle of London, Harry didn’t, too attached to the pubs at every street corner and his friends that he went to see at least five times in a week. Louis loved quiet; Harry preferred loud. He wanted to settle down in a house; Harry thought a flat was quite alright.

In short, he’s still the omega Harry hadn’t been able to keep loving.

He shoves even more ice cream into his mouth, if it can even be called as such now that it’s closer to a milkshake. He ignores Harry’s tense body, the way his jaw has clenched, or how he’s hunching over. This isn’t how the meeting is supposed to go. He takes a deep breath and decides he’ll try and change the mood. He can’t do anything for Harry if they keep on tiptoeing around each other and avoid communication. He needs to know how deep-rooted Harry’s issues are, and if he truly is the right person for him.

But before he can open his mouth, Harry beats him to it, glancing to the side as Bridget.

“She was flirting with you,” he says, his voice rather monotonous now that he has managed to school his expression in it’s usually stone-faced one. Louis chokes around the spoon that’s in his mouth, coughing and quickly putting it down. He wipes his lips with the little napkin that was given to him alongside the ice cream and fixes Harry with a stare full of disbelief.

“You’re kidding,” he offers at last, his eyes going to Bridget, seeing her laughing and talking to other people; she comes off as a flirty person, something that Harry used to be, and he wants to point that out but he figures steering clear of the past, for now, is the superior decision. He shakes his head and raises one eyebrow, because _really?_ Harry shrugs and starts to play with Louis’ napkin, twisting it around his ridiculously long fingers. Since it’s made of fabric, it doesn’t tear under the rough handling. He leans back and watches the alpha, trying to understand why Harry had to say that. Deep down, he knows that it’s a sign of jealousy from the alpha. His scent has morphed into something more intense, as if he were trying to claim Louis as his own though he’s holding back, knowing exactly well that he has no right to do so. 

Louis is not his omega, and it would be silly to think Harry jealous. _We’re over,_ he repeats to himself, Harry hasn’t wanted him back then and most likely still doesn’t want him now. His heart aches as his eye twitches, and the words that come out of his mouth should have remained a fleeting thought, but they still come out.

“I didn’t expect you to come today.”

The letters stick to one another into a long rope, and it wraps around them both, rooting them to that table at _Icicles Crystals._ Harry blinks, probably taken aback by the omega’s bluntness, but then he licks his lips and crosses his arms over his chest. His biceps bulge slightly while doing so, pushing against the thick fabric of his coat, and he has to tamp down the tickling sensation in his lower belly. Harry’s undoubtedly attractive. He’s got a boyish face that is all sharp jaw and big, mossy green eyes. His nose, though slightly too big for his face, is the perfect shape and adds something special to his features, and when he smiles, his slightly bigger front teeth never fail to make Louis squirm in the inside, and that without taking into account the fucking _dimples._ He remembers the first time he saw Harry; the alpha was laughing with his friends at a table in the college’s cafeteria, and Louis had been fetching some food after hours of lectures. The attraction had been instant when their eyes first met, and all it took was a week of exchanged shy glances and evanescent greetings in the crowded corridors for them to go on their first date; it had been perfect. He can still remember, clear as day, the red tablecloth that Harry had laid down over sun-kissed grass, and how they had shared a meal while stars twinkled against the twilight-infused sky. Back then, he thought he had found his alpha, his _mate._

He was wrong.

He hates being wrong, but sometimes, he can’t help it. Even if he wishes he had been wrong for everything else but on that.

The ice cream has completely melted by then, creating a puddle of vanilla-flavoured milk. He doesn’t even flinch when Harry reaches over the table, grabbing the glass and bridging it to his lips. He starts to drink the melted ice cream and Louis hates the way his lips go upwards into a tiny, melancholic smile.

Harry’s probably the only person on earth who willingly drinks melted ice cream, but that way, back then when they’d go out to get some at the ice cream shop near their former flat in London, Louis would always leave a tiny pool of melted ice cream at the bottom of his cup, and it would never go to waste for it’d end up in Harry’s belly.

Maybe some things haven’t changed for _both_ of them. It’s only slightly recomforting.

“Me neither,” Harry mutters at one point, breaking Louis out of his daydream; he blinks and raises an eyebrow at the alpha, who licks his shiny, white lips free from ice cream. “I mean, I wasn’t sure I’d show up, too. Actually, I didn’t even expect for you to agree to another meeting… not after the way I behaved last time.”

The now familiar insecurity comes back into the alpha’s eyes, darkening them, and somehow a part within Louis wants to reassure the alpha. It’s probably his omega’s doing, still yearning for the alpha’s approval despite them having been apart for nearly a decade. He straightens up and tries to convey, both through his eyes and posture, that despite what happened he’s still willing to help Harry. Being protective of the people he knows is a trait he was born with, and though he hardly holds Harry close to his heart (or at least, not as he used to), he won’t let the alpha alone in his plight.

“I’ve read your file,” he begins carefully, gaining confidence as Harry doesn’t flinch at the mention of the program. It’s progress, he decides, relieved. “And I know what to expect. All I hope is that I can help you.”

Harry nods, pushing the empty glass in the middle of the table. Somehow, they both glance down at it, and it seems to give them strength, as if by not looking at one another, they can find a solution to not let this meeting go down the drain. Harry clears his throat and begins to talk.

“You’ve already helped a great lot,” he frowns, as if remembering something. He hesitates, playing hazardly with his top chapped lip, practically taking the thin skin off. “When you let me scent you,” he flushes at the word _scent,_ which, to Louis’ horror, he finds ridiculously _cute_. And since when is Harry Styles cute? He scolds himself for thinking like that. Harry practically burns a hole from how hard he is staring at the ice cream’s sticky glass. “I calmed down quite fast, and hm, I slept better.”

Louis hates a lot of things - he hates the way his toes easily get frostbites, or the way his throat has gone scratchy from eating the frozen ice cream. He hates how bunched up his long-sleeved tee-shirt is as it is trapped between his skin and his coat; and he itches to take it off and right it all so he’s comfortable. But above everything that he’s come to loathe over the years, what he hates the most is how utterly proud and glad he’s feeling right now as Harry tells him he’s the reason for his doing better; his omega preens in absolute satisfaction and _God,_ he fucking hates that.

He doesn’t need to get addicted to these feelings. It took him six years to undo the knots they’ve created around his heart, and he trembles at the prospect of them coming back in such a short time. But in the end he knows that it’s always been easier to destroy than to create. Harry is a stranger to him - he’s an alpha who has come back from war, he’s a _changed_ alpha with new secrets and habits. It would be wrong of him to pretend to still know him. Disrespectful and even delusional, and probably really selfish. 

But still, deep down, he’s smiling to himself because his scent has worked on Harry; it has had the desired effect of helping the troubled alpha, and as he imagines Harry calming down while scenting him, and resting his head on his pillow only to wake up when the dawn breaks in, something he probably hasn’t been able to do in months (years, if the issue has rooted itself so deep within the forest of thorns inside of Harry’s brain that it’d take even longer for Louis to reach it), he thinks, all of this might actually be _worth_ it. 

The program is not some kind of dumb thing he’s been dumb (to match its dumbness) enough to sign up to. _Ah, Horan! Take that!_ He squeezes his thighs closer to one another, trying to contain his elation, but it still takes the shape of a smile which softens the lines making up his face, and he glances up at the alpha he’s promised to never see again. _Well, look at where you are now!_ the little, snarky voice in his head scoffs, but he doesn’t even get mad about how right it is; he might as well accept that Harry has stepped back into his life.

After all, it’s easier to destroy than to create, and undoubtedly even more arduous to prevent the destruction from happening. He’s not some kind of hero, not to the world and not to himself. So he’s going to let Harry walk through the door of his soul and probably let the alpha wreak havoc within it, until he’s left the shell of the man he had been able to build up while Harry had only been fragments of memories.

He swallows down the urge to crumble down. He won’t do that in front of the alpha; he’d rather die, actually. So he straightens up and soothes his facial features into a welcoming, understanding expression.

“I’m glad,” he breathes, his eyelashes creating shadows in front of his vision as he blinks slowly, trying to shake the frosted beam of sunlight that has fallen into his eyes. He sees Harry track the movement with his green irises, though they remain expressionless - and what a sight they must be! Sitting at a table stone-faced, but Louis doesn’t care. Few people know they used to be together, and even fewer know that they’re not out on a date because they want to catch up on one another again.

If only they could see the bracelet around his wrist, the one with the emergency button, then they’d understand that what they’re doing is practical, and emotions are swept under the rug. And he does just that; he buries his feelings deep within the soil in his body, filled with roots of blood and seeds of memories, and focuses on one single thing: mending back Harry Styles's broken pieces.

  
  


-

  
  


The weekend is disturbed by a flourish of fluffy hair and heeled boots with a dash of snow and dropping temperatures. Joceline has decided to go through with her birthday party for Daniel, and she’s making enough noises for the news to spread to Manchester (he’s exaggerating… only slightly). He can only imagine the state in which Daniel is as his sister throws the “party of the century,” as she referred to it around a cup of tea when they went out to chat for a bit. Niall had rolled his eyes so hard he had been scared the omega would remain stuck for the next foreseeable future, and he had tried talking her into dropping the idea, but then it was announced that everything had already been set up and all that was missing was people to come to the party.

It’s how he finds himself tucking his pretty beige coat around his body, something that Harry had gifted him a while ago and which he hasn’t had the heart to hide in the deep-end of his closet because it’s his favourite piece of clothing. It’s long and flows behind him as he walks, and it’s thin but keeps him warm. He knows it has cost many months of saving to Harry, even though the alpha has never told him the price. He hasn’t worn it in a while, preferring to get it out at night and wrap himself in the soft fabric, away from prying eyes. But for some reasons, when he went to dress up and he found himself grabbing it, he had this urge to put it on and to throw caution out of the window.

The heels of his boots click against the ground as he makes his way to Joceline’s house, which is quaint and doesn’t usually stand out against the row of identical houses, except balloons are tied to the fence, differencing it from the rest. He breathes out, his nails digging into his palm as he steps into the — well-kept — garden, walking up to the front door. Before he can even knock, it swings open, and Niall smiles at him, visibly relaxing as he gazes at him.

“God fucking bless you’re here,” he says, closing the door until only his body is blocking it from shutting completely. “Sometimes I truly wonder whether Joceline has got a pea where her brain should be. Daniel is two seconds away from digging his own grave. Come quick!”

He gulps and steps into the house, the fragrance of baked cake sweetening the air. He doesn’t dare remove his coat even though the house is nice and warm, somehow finding comfort in the weight it adds on his shoulders.

“Nice coat,” Niall smirks, making him flush. His best friend is the only one who knows about the coat’s backstory, about how much the stitched fabric means to him. He pulls the sleeves over his hands as they walk through the corridor, and the closer to the living room they get, the louder the voices get, and they offer a curious steady background noise. Niall is the first one to enter the living room, stealing the attention of several guests, and while he still hasn’t been seen he glances around, spotting several familiar faces. Joceline is over the buffet table, holding a place full of petit-fours and a glass of champagne, and she laughs at something an alpha — that he has seen in passing — whisper to her, throwing her head back, red lipstick standing out against the sea of brown trousers and dull-tainted collarless knit tee shirts. 

Joceline glances over and beams when her eyes fall on him, already disregarding the alpha to trot to him. Her white heels create a rhythm as they hit the ground, and she grabs a glass of champagne on her way for him. He smiles faintly as she comes to a stop in front of him, and passes over the glass, which he takes gently, instantly bringing it to his lips. It’s sweet, slightly bitter, and not his favourite, but he’ll take anything at this point. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” she smiles, eyeing his coat. “I like this, it’s nice.”

She reaches out to touch the fabric but he takes a step back just as her name is called out from behind her, and he sighs in relief as she nods at him and whirls around, searching for whoever asked for her. Niall has disappeared, and he feels awkward standing in the doorway, so he moves to a corner of the room, sipping at the pie spices-smelling liquid. He takes in the decoration, from the balloons hung all around the room, to the thick, large ribbon stretching across the wall with the fireplace that reads, in big bold black letters, ‘ _Daniel.’_ The cake is waiting to be cut, prominent next to the petit-fours and the smaller bite-sized desserts. He isn’t even angry, having eaten a generous breakfast, so he settles with drinking himself full with champagne.

No one comes to him to talk, and he’s glad for that because he plans on walking back home as soon as he is able to slip out of the house unnoticed. He’d much rather be drinking steaming hot tea while continuing _The Hound of the Baskervilles._ He plays with the belt that comes with the coat, and observes the people around him. Mrs. Rosemary is dressed in a beautiful red dress, showing off her curves, and her square, borderless glasses catch the light of the chandelier above their heads, shining at moments depending on how she is standing. He doesn’t linger on it; his eyes fly over the crowd, recognizing a few, having forgotten others. He’s staring at the gaudy handbag of a woman he has never seen before when warmth merges with his own, and the smell of alpha tickles his nostrils.

“Enjoying yourself?” Daniel asks, leaning against the wall and staring straight ahead, at his name overlooking the room. Louis tries to think of how the alpha must feel right now, and he holds back a grimace.

“As much as you are,” he answers at last, swirling the liquid around the glass, bubbles going to the surface and disappearing, new ones appearing just as soon.

When Daniel speaks, he can hear the smile in the alpha’s voice. “Not much, then.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, lough enough for Daniel to hear. “She wouldn’t listen.”

“Not surprising,” Daniel shakes his head, glancing down at his feet. Then, he steps away from the wall and turns to look at him, dull brown eyes assessing him. “You’ve been helping him.”

He freezes, the glass hanging midway to his lips, and his entire body tenses. _What? How the fuck does he know?_ Daniel must sense the panic for he softens the features of his face. “It’s alright, Louis. I know Harry.”

 _You know Harry?_ he wants to scream, but instead he breathes steadily through his nose and soothes his face into a neutral expression. He doesn’t have to ask anything about it, Daniel relents an explanation. “We were together at Normandy.”

 _They fought together?_ His fingers shake and, for fear of them letting go of the glass, he walks to the nearest table and puts it down. He’s glad that, when he glances over his shoulder, Daniel hasn’t followed him. He feels like he is suffocating, as if the walls around him were closing in on him. He blindly stumbles back and makes a dash for the front door, apologizing when he bumps into someone.

“Are you quite alright?” he hears the person ask him, worried, and he jerks his head briskly, walking more quickly and tightening his fingers around the doorknob. He waits for a few seconds, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against the hard surface, then he gently — which contrasts with the storm raging within him — pushes it open and steps on the porch. The cold air instantly meets him, but he welcomes it with open arms, hoping for it to cool down the fever that threatens to take his body over.

He’s just… so _lost._ It’s the first time he’s had a direct encounter with an element — or person — of Harry’s years that he spent abroad, fighting for the country. Daniel has made it all so much real, has rendered it even more obvious that Harry isn’t faring well. _You’ve been helping him,_ Daniel has said, but he wants to answer, _I haven’t done much._ He looks up at the cloudy sky, trying to find answers into the water-filled cotton candies. He comes out empty handed, and only with a heavy heart. _Am I really helping you, Harry Styles?_ he silently wonders to the crocuses and English primroses. They stare at him blankly, busy fighting the cold air and the layers of snow that drip down their dark green petals. Looks like he’ll have to deal with the uncertainty, and hope that, as time trickles on, he’ll get to leave it behind and come out clean of doubts.

As he draws the coat closer to his body, pressing his fingers against the fabric covering his neck — he is wearing a turtleneck —, he feels eyes on him. Maybe he’s hallucinating, or maybe Jane Austen has gotten to his brain, but it feels as if they were undressing him, practically burning a hole through the double layer of coat and skin, to reach his heart. He looks to the side, fully expecting to not find anything, or to maybe come eye-to-eye with a starved stray dog whose fur isn’t thick enough to fight the cold breath of winter.

But instead, and his heart stops beating as soon as the sight registers to his brain, he is met with a head full of short curls and mossy green eyes that are unwaveringly settled on him.

His lips part in shock, a puff of white cloud waltzing out of his mouth in the process. _Harry? Harry is here?_ his inner voice rushes out, panic seizing him by the throat and squeezing until pain blossoms behind his eyelids. His fingers shake as he fists the fabric of the coat, and Harry tracks the movement with an unreadable face, but Louis can see emotions swirling within those emerald green eyes and he wants the grounds to fucking open up and swallow him whole because the alpha was never supposed to see him wearing _this._

Harry approaches him at a pace that reveals he is expecting for Louis to flee, and the omega wants to; he wants to dart to the side and rush down the stairs and sprint to his house and snap the door closed and slide down it while feeling as if the world were ending all around him. He feels dizzy, the feeling worsening as Harry’s natural, so distinctly alpha scent reaches him and he goes unsteady on his feet, Harry’s hands flying to his waist the only thing keeping him upwards. 

“Fuck, Louis,” Harry grits out, pushing him against his firm chest and wrapping his arms around the smaller body. “You’re pale.”

He doesn’t say anything, mortified, his nose smashed against the detergent-smelling coat of the alpha. For some reasons, he can’t make his legs work, and he hates himself for that. _What the fuck is wrong with you?_ he screams in his head, and he pouts as he feels Harry rub circles on his back. His body relaxes as Harry scents him — _don’t!_ he shouts, but the words don’t come out — and he closes his eyes, enjoying the effect Harry’s scent has on him. _This is not good,_ his conscience whispers, and his brain is well-aware that is isn’t but his heart doesn’t even fucking care. 

Hands cup his cheeks and pull his head back, so that instead of having an eyeful of brown, worn-out fabric, rainforest green — _green, green green, so green!_ — fills up his vision. He lets out a shaky breath as Harry rubs his thumbs, back and forth, over the apples of his cheeks, then moving to the prominent bags underneath his eyes.

“You look so tired,” Harry remarks gently, his soft eyes flying all over the omega’s face as if he’d find the answer etched in the tired, haunted lines of Louis’ face. But the answer isn’t there; no, the answer is currently caressing his face, gazing at him in concern, and unconsciously destroying every bit of self-control Louis has managed to build up over the past six years. _Stop scenting me!_ he wants to snap. _You’re not my alpha,_ he wants to snarl.

“Let’s go inside,” Harry straightens up, guiding Louis to the house’s door with a hand on the small of his back. “And find you some sugar. I’m afraid you’re two seconds away from fainting.”

He wants to shout, _don’t touch my coat! Don’t touch me! Let me go!_ He wants to slip out of Harry’s grip and go back to his safe haven that is his house, but instead he lets himself be escorted inside the warm house, allows Harry to take him to the kitchen, and feeds him a lump of sugar. It melts on his tongue, coats his throat in a sugary layer, but it hardly does anything to get his energy back up. If anything, as Harry takes a step back from him, his long arms falling to his side, he feels worse. _Get a grip, Tomlinson,_ he scoffs, and he leans against the kitchen counter, wrapping his arms around himself, staring at the floor. _I won’t look at you, Styles,_ he promises to himself, knowing the moment the words flash through his brain that he won’t be able to carry through with what they claim.

“Have you been eating? Sleeping?” Harry babbles, pouring a tall glass of water and urging Louis to drink, which he does half-heartedly. “You look ill,” the alpha mutters, upset, and he catches the way Harry’s eyes twitch, or how his fingers shake ever so slightly. He’s worried. Harry is worried for him. He should do something to calm Harry down, but the exhaustion rooting itself in the marrow of his bones is such that he can’t even open his mouth. 

Harry is head-deep into the fridge, trying to find something else to feed him with, when Niall appears in the doorway. He takes one look at the sight before him, and instantly he understands what’s going on. He gives Louis a worried look, before he squares his shoulders and stares at Harry’s moving back.

“Daniel is asking for you,” he says firmly, Harry tensing up and turning around, snapping the fridge’s door closed, his face grim.

“Tell him to wait,” he stresses out, and he starts to make his way towards Louis. _No,_ the omega begs. _Go away._ Niall’s eyes darken.

“Harry,” he says slowly, angling his body in a way that allows him to lean against the wall, leaving the doorway free. “Please.”

Harry must take the hint, for he stops and stares at Niall, then looks at Louis, probably expecting for him to tell Niall that it’s fine, that he can go, that he wants to be at the alpha’s side. The regret befalling his expression must speak loud enough, and his guts twist uncomfortably as Harry’s face falls, before soothing out into a neutral one — he doesn’t let anything show, his lips tightly closed, his eyes open but as dead as a corpse after its soul has gone to the heavens above. _I’m so sorry,_ he wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat. Harry pushes his fists in his pockets and jerks his head in understanding, before saunting out of the kitchen. He doesn’t look back, and Louis is glad for that, because as soon as the alpha is out of sight, his knees buckle and he falls to the ground, a sob escaping his lips. Niall rushes to his side, wrapping his arms around him.

“Lou, it’s alright,” Niall says, helping Louis get back to his feet. “Let’s get you home while Joceline is busy entertaining Joe.”

He nods, using the back of his hand to wipe the tears away, and together they walk out of the house. Fearing being interrupted, he practically runs down the steps, nearly breaking his neck as his feet meet the frozen grass, but Niall is right by his side to prevent him from meeting his death.

“Take it slow, Lou,” Niall tells him, and he whines pitifully, hating how the cold lingers on his wet face. The grass underneath his soles crunch, contrasting with the deadly silence the cement offers as he steps over it. Joceline’s house shrinks in size the further from it he walks, and he glances over his shoulder at it, not knowing what it is exactly that he is looking for.

He regrets when he finds one of the windows looking out on the living room, and sees the curtains quickly fall back into their closed position, the familiar figure of the alpha he both loves and loathes disappearing behind the velvety fabric.

  
  


-

  
  


Blotches of colors merge together as he opens his eyes, throbbing temples making him groan. The frosted sunshine has gone all out as it spans over his face, and he squeezes his eyelids shut and rolls over to bury his face in his sweet-smelling pillow.

“I made tea,” a voice rings from behind him. “It’ll grow cold if you keep lazing around.”

“Leave me be, Ni,” he groans, hugging the long pillow to his chest, puffy eyes staring at his bedside table, where said cup of tea is waiting for him, translucent steam rising from the brownish liquid. He takes a deep breath then pushes his body in an upward position, grimacing at the stale taste in his sleep-infused mouth. He should brush his teeth, but the cuppa is too enticing so, in the end, he takes it and brings it to his lips. The hot liquid washes away the odd, unpleasant feeling, and his slumber-soft body awakens slightly. He offers Niall a grateful smile, which quickly disappears as he takes in the blond omega’s stern expression. “What’s wrong?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. 

Niall sighs and looks at him in disbelief. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

His memories swirl around like ice cubes in a glass, and he frowns as he recollects the events of the previous day, turning white when Harry’s expressionless face appears in his mind. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, looking up at the blank ceiling.

“Fuck, indeed,” Niall answers as he carefully studies Louis’ face. “Do you… remember what happened once we got to your house?”

He frowns and looks at the blond omega, trying to conjure up the memories of the previous night, but blinking in stupor when he can’t. He supposes they had a nice cup of tea, and then he went to take a hot bath, but no matter how hard he tries, the last thing he remembers is crying pitifully in the middle of his unkempt garden. 

“What happened?” he wonders, his voice low, trembling along his fingers, that he has to tighten around the cup to control. Niall stands up and sits next to him on the bed, the mattress dipping under the added weight.

“You,” Niall begins, unsure, fumbling with the fabric of the sweater he took from Louis’ closet. When he doesn’t say anything else for several seconds, Louis sighs.

“Out with it, Ni,” he mumbles, taking a long sip from the cup, eyes cast on a random spot on the quilt.

“You fainted,” Niall finally admits, rubbing his cheek. “I called the doctor. It’s not good,” he adds, reaching out to take Louis’ cold hand within his own.

“What did he say?” he finds the courage to ask, though he wishes he could pretend nothing is wrong. Niall doesn’t answer; instead, he stands up and goes to the piece of furniture that hosts his jewels and little souvenirs, fetching a thin sheet of paper. He passes it over, and Louis glances down at the doctor’s sloppy handwriting. Years of trying to decipher children’s kitchen scratch comes in handy as he manages to figure out most of the words, and his blood freezes as they taint his brain.

_Mr. Tomlinson suffers from emotional distress caused by being away from his alpha._

His eyes snap to Niall. “What alpha?” he chokes out, waving the paper in the air. “I don’t have an alpha!”

Niall raises his hands, trying to calm him down. “I know, Lou, and I told him that. Read on, you’ll understand.”

He hesitates; he could just ball up the paper and set fire to it, and any evidence of his not doing well would disappear in the air. But he knows it won’t improve reality. He knows that pulling a veil over his eyes will only postpone the pain, and the moment when the ground will shake underneath his feet. So he smooths out the wrinkles marring the sheet and looks down at it, continuing to read the words even though each of them is a stab to his chest.

 _Being separated from his alpha.”_ He stops, grimacing at the words. Harry is not his alpha. Not anymore. He gave up that title when he decided their love wasn’t strong enough to last. He sucks the tears in and lets his eyes fly over the ink: _for a long period of time, and suddenly being reunited with him, has caused emotional distress sparked by the sudden assault to his nerves. Mr. Tomlinson needs to be as close to the alpha as possible, to allow his confused inner omega to get acquainted with the scent again. Fatigue and headaches are common symptoms. Heats may be triggered early_ — he shudders at that — _and loss of appetite can also occur._

_Emotional distress can also be in tune with the alpha’s own emotional instability._

“What— _no,_ ” he shakes his head, pushing the piece of paper against the quilt, feeling nauseous. Has he been sensing Harry’s personal emotional struggles so much to the point that he’s been physically and mentally impacted by them? It must be false. Being able to feel your partner’s feelings, is something that only mated couples are able to do. The smooth skin of his next is proof enough that he hasn’t taken that step, and he sure as hell isn’t mated to Harry. This is just… this _can’t_ be. The doctor has made a mistake.

“I need to freshen up,” he says, voice low. He doesn’t let Niall say anything as he rushes out of the bed, practically throwing his body against the bathroom’s door. When it clicks shut behind him, he stumbles to the sink and fumbles with the tap, a sob breaking out from his mouth. He cups his hands, cold water filling the bottom, and splashes it over his face. What he has read is playing, over and over again, in his brain, and it won’t stop no matter how much he begs. With tears streaming down his face, he removes his clothes, letting them scattered all over the floor. He enters the bathtub, turning the water on until it’s as hot as he can bear, and he’s glad when the drops of salty water pouring out of his eyes merge with the ones slowly filling up the cage of porcelain, surrounding him.

His thoughts fall into place like the pieces of a jigsaw, except they don’t make sense and make him more confused than ever. He has been able to live rather well for years, even if it took him a while to find his path after he left Harry. His throat tightens as he remembers the day his entire world, and his heart, crumbled.

_The sun is shining like the petals of a sunflower underneath the sunset, but the gloom that has befallen the city overshadows the brightness of the sky. The sorrow is pinned to the walls by nails and takes the shape of three letters. Of one word._

_War._

_He’s taken to keeping his eyes firmly on the ground as he navigates through London, and only looks up once he’s within the walls of their cramped flat. He can hear flies buzzing from how silent his surroundings are, and he knows already what he’s going to find in their bedroom. Dropping his bag near their worn-out settee, he slowly makes his way to the door, pushing it open and holding his breath as he finds Harry on the bed, his back to the bedpost, his blank face turned towards the broken window that they meant to change for several weeks now but never got around to doing it, struggling financially._

_He remains in the doorway, “Harry,” he says, expecting for the alpha to turn his head to look at him, but instead, Harry gestures at a disregarded piece of paper stuck to their secondhand quilt. He slowly approaches it, shaky fingers reaching for it. Tears rush to his eyes when he sees from who it is from._

_The National Service._

_“No,” he exhales, his body falling delicately on the bed, his elbows going to rest over his thighs. He presses his fingers in his eyelids._

_“I have to,” Harry finally speaks up, his voice low and hollow. Louis shakes his head._

_“You can object,” he gulps, shaking the letter. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Harry doesn’t agree with him._

_“I can’t, Louis,” he says softly, the gasp coming from the deepest part of his throat betraying the calm exterior. “I’m older than 18, I’m strong and I don’t have an omega.”_

_“But I’m your omega,” Louis says, his voice breaking, his eyes never leaving the printed words. His heart aches in a way he didn’t know was possible._

_The tension in the air is tangible; it worms its way between them, digs up the soil down to their hearts, and causes havoc as it goes._

_“We’re not mated,” Harry states, the mattress going up as he stands up and walks to the window. Louis doesn’t dare look at the alpha. He’s still processing the words on the letter, the official signature at the bottom of it, and Harry’s full name at the top of the paper._

_Harry is going to war._

_His_ **_alpha_ ** _is going to war._

_And he can’t do anything about it, except accept it. But how does one receive with open arms the news that their loved ones are about to be sent to their death? How is he supposed to just… be alright with that? How is Harry so calm about it all?_

_He throws the paper over his shoulder and gets to his feet, his hands shaking by his sides. Before he can open his mouth, Harry speaks up._

_“I’ve already notified them that I’ll be up and ready for the Military Training Act. It begins in May.”_

_He feels as if the ground has opened up underneath his feet. He breathes harshly through his nose, his chest rising up and down, manifesting the panic building up within him._

_“And you didn’t think of telling me?” he mutters, on the edge of hysteria. “This isn’t something you can decide just like that! This is you going off to war for God-knows how long! This is you leaving me behind! I won’t even know if you’ll come back eventually!”_

_He’s shouting at this point. His throat hurts, his heart aches, his knees threaten to give out. His voice cracks on the last few words, the implication between them turning into bags of stones that weight down over their shoulders, scratching their skin, making it bleed._

_He might never see Harry again. The thought is as painful as having his chest cut open and hands rummaging in his organs._

_“Harry,” he whispers, shaking his head. “Please, tell me you understand why I’m upset.”_

_He hates how the alpha doesn’t turn around to look at him, hates that he already feels as if an entire world is separating them._

_“It’s my duty,” Harry answers, the muscles in his back tensing._

_“I know it is,” he grits out, fingernails digging into his palms, creating croissant-shaped wounds. “I never said it wasn’t. I just wished you’d talked to me before making any decision. We are not communicating.”_

_“Talked to you to say what?” Harry whirls around, his eyes empty. “What would you have told me? ‘Harry, don’t go to war?’ Well, the outcome would have been the same had I talked to you or not. I just avoided a painful conversation for us.”_

_He can feel anger bubbling in his lower belly like hot molten lava, and he closes his eyes, pressing his fingers against his throbbing temples. Doesn’t Harry get it? He understands that Harry going to war is unavoidable, but he could have waited a bit before notifying the government, they could have talked about how they’re going to write to each other. They could have spent some time together, but they won’t even get that because Harry is enrolling in less than_ **_two_ ** _weeks. It’s almost as if their relationship didn’t mean anything to the alpha — as if being torn away from one another will hurt only him. The anger grows big enough to blind him, and he makes his way to the door, holding onto it._

_“You don’t understand,” he huffs. “In a relationship, we talk. We figure things out. I’d have preferred if we talked about how we’re going to communicate while you’re away, or when you’ll be able to visit me, or just— this is a big thing, Harry. I’d have preferred if we had dealt with it together, like any other couple.”_

_“Louis, I am more likely to die than come back alive,” Harry sighs, his jaw clenching. “But I will send you letters,” he continues in a softer tone._

_He doesn’t mean for his voice to come out so cold, or for his wrath to seep into his thoughts to the point it rushes out through his words._

_“How are you so sure that you’re going to communicate with me during the war when you couldn’t even do that while we’re here together?”_

_He sees Harry flinch, and watches the alpha take a step forward, but he shakes his head and takes one on his own - backwards. He can’t even look at the alpha. So without a word, he goes to the living room, grabs his bag, and storms out of the door. It’s only when he’s far away from their building for it to only be a spot of black in the background, that the first tears begin to fall._

_April goes and May comes; he doesn’t see the alpha once._

_And he’s not sure he’ll ever see him again._

  
  


A knock on the door. Water sloshing over the bathtub’s edges. Sobs ricocheting against the bathroom walls. He has trouble breathing, and he doesn’t even notice it when, several seconds later, the door is pushed open and Niall rushes in. Arms circle his body, and he leans into them willingly, wetting Niall’s shirt as his face is tucked in the crook of the omega’s neck. He breathes in Niall’s soothing scent, but somehow it does very little in calming him down.

“It’s ok,” Niall says in his hair, rubbing his hands up and down Louis’ arms. “You’re fine, Lou. We’ll find a solution.”

He sincerely doubts that, but he doesn’t voice anything aloud; he focuses on slowing down his breathing, and he manages at last. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Niall’s shoulders. His puffy eyes hurt, and the exhaustion that suddenly befalls his body is enough to render him useless. Niall has to turn off the tap. The water has reached the very top of the tub, spilling whenever they move. Carefully, he stands up, helped by Niall, and steps out of the porcelain. He shivers as his naked skin meets the steamy air.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Niall sighs. “You’re tired. Don’t think about anything, alright?”

His head meets the pillow, and he lets Niall rub a towel over his wet skin. His eyes droop, close; the shiny window turns blurry, the world sinks in darkness. He wants to tell Niall that he never stops thinking; that even when he wants quiet, all he gets in return is harsh memories and whispers.

And all of them, without fail, are about Harry.

  
  


-

  
  


The heat of the cup of tea he had earlier in the morning keeps on warming him inside, helping fight the cool breeze of the day. He rubs his puffy eyes, sighing as his digits meet the raised dark circles. Dreamland’s office has been glaring at him for twenty minutes now, and still he remains on the opposite street, leaning against the wall, a smoking cigarette dangling from his lips. He inhales the tobacco-infused smoke, his lips rounding slightly as he breathes it out. He doesn’t like smoking, and has stopped the filthy habit considerably, but sometimes the sight of a pack through the glass window of a store is too strong, too enticing. Said pack weights down in his trouser’s back pocket, burning a hole. He sucks in some more of the smoke, then crushes the butt against the bricked wall.

The bell rings as he pushes the door, and Benjamin’s eyes instantly snap to him, lighting up.

“Louis!” he exclaims, resting his chin on his folded hands, elbows on the desk. “It’s lovely seeing you.”

“You too,” he smiles, moving left to right nervously, the soles of his boots digging into the floor, grounding him.

“Is it to sign the form?”

Louis’ hands turn clammy, and he rubs the wet palms on his trousers, staring down at the piece of paper that Benjamin slides on the counter. It’s a form wondering about how the last meeting went, and if he is willing to go on a third one. He picks up the fountain pain, watches as the ink flows to the nib, shining under the light. He gulps and squeezes his eyes shut, before opening them again and fixing Benjamin with a stare, unsure, hesitating… careless.

“I’d—” he begins, stopping midway, his brain working at putting together his thoughts. _Should he really do this?_ He licks his lips and straightens up. “I’d like to begin therapy already.”

Benjamin freezes, then turns his head to look at him, blinking in stupor. But then his face darkens, and he pushes his chair back, standing up.

“Louis,” he begins gently. “Are you sure? Did you take that decision on your own?”

The blue-eyed omega frowns, tilting his head. “What do you mean? Of course I did.”

His stomach drops as Benjamin rounds the desk and takes his hands in his own. “Just… please know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If… if you’re being urged on by the alpha you’re supposed to help, please tell me, I will take legal actions against the alpha.”

His mouth drops open in shock, and he snatches his hands back. “You think Harry is forcing me to begin therapy?”

Benjamin raises his hands. “Calm down, Lou. I’m just surprised you want to begin already, is all. You’re safe here, you can be as honest as possible and tell me if anything… happened.”

He feels anger pour out of his pores like steam of boiling water. Part of him is glad that the program is so protective of omegas, and is ready to help them in case anything happens, but another part within him turns red at the prospect of anyone thinking Harry possible of manipulating an omega. He might not hold the alpha in his highest esteem, but he can attest to Harry’s honest nature, and that the alpha would never force him to do something he doesn’t want to. He takes a deep breath and jerks his head.

“I am sure, Benjamin. He didn’t force me to do anything. I feel comfortable with him.”

The last part might not be completely true, but he figures it’s the quickest way to get Benjamin to slide the other form. With a sigh, the beta goes back to his chair, though he makes sure to glance at Louis every once in a while, almost as if expecting to find doubt on the omega’s face. Louis keeps his eyes securely fixed on the counter, his arms remain crossed over his chest, and he pursues his lips to show that he isn’t going to change his opinion. 

He picks up the pen as the new form is given to him, and he quickly fills it. He hesitates as he reads, _full-night sessions or thirty minutes-one hour sessions,_ the tip of the fountain pen hovering over the cases. In the end, he puts a cross in the first option, and quickly juts his signature down, before he can change his mind. He can do this. It will be hard, he can’t deny it, but if he makes up his mind that he’ll manage it firmly enough, then he will.

He ignores Benjamin’s worried gaze. “As soon as we have Mr. Styles’ decision, we’ll get back to you.”

He nods and walks briskly out of the office, ignoring the way Benjamin’s eyes linger on his back, and the way they make him want to turn around, snatch the form back, and tear it to pieces.

  
  


-

  
  


“I don’t know what to think,” Niall confesses, scooping the whipped cream and stuffing it in his mouth, humming around the fluffy white cloud.

“Oh, because you think?” he teases, scrunching up his nose as Niall points his spit-wet spoon at him.

“I’ll have you know I’m a genius,” the blond omega tells him, holding back a laugh. “Can’t say the same about you. Who in their right state of mind accepts to sleep with their ex? Do you know what I did to—”

“—to Albert,” Louis cuts in, rolling his eyes, flushing in embarrassment because Niall has a point. “Yes, I know all about it, but I’m not about to do that to Harry.”

“What, you don’t think shaving Harry bald would look good? Bald Harry Styles.”

“Stop it,” he hisses, giggling, playing with the hot cup of coffee before him. Then he sighs, his shoulders tensing. “Did I make a mistake?” he whispers, a hint of insecurity seeping into his words.

Niall turns serious. He leans back against his chair, eyes on Louis. “I don’t know, Lou. You’re hurting because of him, so I don’t think being close to him will do you any good.”

“But it hurts,” he mutters, his eyes glazing over. “My inner omega hurts.”

And they both know there isn’t much they can do about it. It’s always been a mystery, how one’s inner omega has a mind of its own, how much it can differ from the person it inhabits. He has had time to think about it, to understand why his body has begun weakening after stumbling upon Harry all those weeks ago. And the conclusion isn’t pretty, or ideal, and he has a hard time accepting it.

“I thought you’ve stopped loving him,” Niall breathes out, cutting a piece of pie and throwing it in his mouth. Louis wants to laugh, not because the situation is funny — it really isn’t — but because the reality of it is pathetic. He’s almost afraid to have to say aloud what has quietly really occurred over the last six years — afraid to throw out in the air the bitter truth of his condition. The café is much too sweet, much too appealing and pretty for his failed love life. But he needs to spit it out lest it’d start clogging up his throat until he’s choking, unable to breath.

“I never stopped loving him,” he finally admits, ignoring the way Niall’s eyes widen.

“But I thought—,” he frowns, putting the spoon down, the thing clicking against the plate. “Louis, _six_ years?”

The words he says next are his hamartia. They’re the hands on his back, pushing him off a cliff. They’re the knife on the table that slowly calls out for him. 

“I didn’t spend the last six years trying to unlove him,” the words slide out of his mouth, coils around his neck like a snake, squeezes tight, cuts the flow of his breathing. He licks his lips. “But trying to detach my omega from my feelings, so that one day I might welcome someone else.”

And he failed. He failed spectacularly. All it took was for the tall, curly-haired, green-eyed alpha to round the corner of _Pick-a-Book_ for his entire world to fall off its axis. For it to stop rotating and dive into a darkness that can’t be pushed away with light — because there’s no light anymore. Harry’s always been _it_ for him: the other half of his heart, the missing piece of his soul, the reason for his pain, for his laughter, for his tears. Harry’s been everything to him since day one. 

Despite the hurt and sorrow the alpha caused, the love Harry would give him in the dead of the night all those years ago, the soft brush of the alpha’s lips against his forehead; or the cup of tea infused with love he’d prepare in the morning… These are the memories his brain has tried to lock away in a glossy box, but his omega, the deepest part of his being, has latched onto them and only needed a push to fully get wrapped by them until reason is a faceless stranger.

Seeing Harry was it for him. The fatal strike. The thread that would connect his feelings to his omega until his entire body is aching with the need to be with the alpha. 

He loves Harry. And he hates it.

He positively loathes it because he knows it isn’t reciprocated. 

He brings the cup of coffee to his lips, takes a long sip, the hot liquid burning his tongue. He welcomes the pain with open arms, barely flinches as it hops to the roof of his mouth, slides down his throat. 

“Do you think… you’ll be able to try for a relationship again?”

Instantly, he shakes his head, glancing at Niall. “No,” he answers, hating how convinced he sounds. Hating how his voice doesn’t break in doubt. Hates that he knows a second chance isn’t an option; that the love of his life slipped through his fingers like a fish, and joined the abyss of the sea, never to be found again. “He doesn’t love me,” he adds bitterly. 

“And you still want to help him,” Niall hesitates on the words, as if they didn’t make sense. Louis figures they don’t. Who would want to help someone that brings only pain to them?

Him, apparently. But he knows his body. He needs Harry just as much as the traumatised alpha needs him. Then, once they’ve gotten better, Harry will be able to move on, build a new life. And he’ll be left behind with his broken heart and broken soul and broken love and broken everything — and he’ll only have, to both soothe out and ignite pain, the memory of the relief he felt while being with the alpha. He’ll probably get two, three, maybe four months of bliss before it’s taken away from him. 

“We’ll be helping each other,” he responds, twirling the black liquid around. It tastes as tart as he feels.

“But at what cost?”

He doesn’t answer.

  
  


-

  
  


He doesn’t know why he’s shocked when he gets a positive answer from the program, saying that Harry has accepted to delve into therapy already, but somehow he still has to sit down and re-read the letter just to make sure he isn’t hallucinating. He’s not, and he breathes out shakily as he registers that he’s spending the night at Harry’s. This is it!

The letter joins his notebooks, and he takes a smaller piece of paper to jot down Harry’s address. Then he gets ready for the day, dressing up, putting on tight black trousers, a turtleneck, his coat, and grabbing an extra bag with pyjamas, extra clothes, a toothbrush, and several tea bags (he won’t survive the night if he doesn’t have his tea). He glances one last time around the house, and his eyes fall on the black tote bag leaning against his wall, innocent, collecting dust. Unsure, he grabs it, the thing slightly heavy because he actually brought the things Harry has chosen before storming out of the grocery store — or, at least, he’s kept the things that won’t expire. He doesn’t know how Harry is going to act about Louis bringing him groceries, but he brushes the thought to the side and steps outside, locking the door behind him and knowing he won’t be opening it again until next morning.

He has agreed to four sessions per week; Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday nights. He’s both nervous at the prospect of sleeping with _Harry,_ in the same bed, in the same room, under the same roof — not just nervous, actually; he’s scared to no end, imagining all kinds of scenarios. _What if he changes his mind? What if my omega goes berserk? What if I like sleeping next to Harry?_ The last thought makes him stop in the middle of the street, throat tight. The last thing he needs is to become addicted to having Harry by his side again. _He_ needs the alpha to get better, to help his inner omega settle; but he can’t allow the situation to fuel his already bothersome feelings.

The cement has turned slippery from the weeks of snow. It doesn’t take long for him to reach the school; its bright, pale green walls barely stand out from the light grey sky, but years upon years of gazing at it has made it special. He goes to its gates, being careful not to slip as he steps over frozen bits of streets, then pushes open the gates. He’s arrived slightly earlier than usual, meaning that only the school’s secretary — Rachel — and a few teachers are there. The playgrounds paint a sad landscape, devoid of any children to run across it, to fill the air with their bubble laughter and joyful cries. He draws his coat tighter around himself, and quickly walks to his classroom. Rachel waves at him through her office’s window, and he manages to wave back despite the bags in his hands.

His classroom’s smell never fails to relax him. A smile grazes his lips as he drops everything he’s holding behind his desk, being careful with the tote bag so that its content doesn’t spill all over the ground — he’d hate to have to run after cans of beans as they roll across the room. He cleans the room for a while, then writes the date on top of the black board as well as the day’s schedule. He straightens up the printed cartoons representing class rules, and also lines up the little tables. At seven thirty, children begin to arrive, the stomp of their tiny feet loud outside, and at eight, he goes to the doorway and waits for his children. Soon enough, smiling faces appear.

“Mr. Tomlinson!” several of them exclaim, and he waves at each kids, silently asking them to make a queue, which they do. Once satisfied, he steps to the side and they pour inside the classroom, dropping their bags and coats in the cubbies and sitting down at their assigned table.

He claps his hands to draw their attention to him, and slowly, but surely, the excited laughs and chatters die down. He smiles reassuringly at them.

“I hope you’re all excited for today’s lessons,” he speaks, loud and clear to be properly heard, then he gestures at the words on the board. He sees a few squint their eyes, trying to decipher what is written, while others - those who are more at ease with reading - are already getting out their copybooks and pencils.

The day goes by much faster than he wants it to, so that when the bell rings, announcing the end of the day, he blinks in stupor, glancing out of the window to see that the sun has gone lower in the sky, which has turned a shade darker. He licks his lips and gulps as he realizes that in less than three hours, he’ll be seeing Harry’s place for the first time. It sounds surreal and it takes him a few moments to come back to earth to bid the children farewell and open the door for them. Somehow, he throws on his coat and decides to walk with them to the gate, looking down fondly as Noah babbles away about the new boots his mother bought him — _the coolest, fastest shoes ever!_ — or as Jolene squeezes his hand, not wanting to let go. He ruffles her soft hair and his hand drops to his side as she lets go, her eyes lighting up. She takes off towards the gate, his voice dying down as he calls out for her to slow down, afraid she might slip and hurt herself.

His breath hitches and he’s unable to produce a noise as he looks up and spots a familiar face.

Harry.

Harry is standing by the gate, a smile on his face, his arms opened. The omega’s mouth drops open in shock as Jolene speeds up and jumps into Harry’s arms, the alpha losing balance for several seconds. Thankfully, he leans against the wall and doesn’t go crumbling to the wet ground, and he holds Jolene steady on his waist, talking to her, the biggest smile Louis’ ever seen since seeing Harry again on his face. He quickly walks back, hiding behind a big, frozen bush, breathing in and out to calm himself down. _What in the Devil’s name? Oh my God._ He glances around the mess of frosted green leaves, and sees Harry’s retreating back, Jolene still in his arms. 

_What is Harry doing with Jolene?_ His heart drops to his guts as he goes to the teacher restroom, where he splashes lukewarm water over his face. He’s torn between the mystery behind the thought of Harry even knowing Jolene at all, or the pain that the sight of Harry with children brings up. He flushes and walks out of the detergent-smelling room, reaching his classroom in no time. He goes about cleaning the room, as is his wont, though his mind is elsewhere; the scene replays in his head like a motion picture. The wet rag scratches at his hands the more he rubs it against the tables, until he realizes it and stops, looking down at it in disdain.

He glances at the bags, ponders on what they represent, and with a sigh he scoops them up and exits his classroom, locking it behind him.

He meets Sephora as he walks by her office, and she offers him a smile that he manages to return. He should just walk and prepare himself mentally for the night he’s about to experience. He doesn’t need to feed his growing curiosity, doesn’t have to increase his fears. Still, he stops in front of her doorway and leans closer to it, holding his weight with his hand, fingers digging into the hard wall.

“Hi,” he says, his lips twitching in a lopsided smile. “I hope I’m not bothering you. This won’t take long.”

Sephora puts down her pen, giving him her undivided attention. “Sure, Lou. What’s up?”

He hesitates, munching on his bottom lip. He can just pretend that he is worried about Jolene being picked up by someone that is not her mother. He squares his shoulders and tightens his grip around the handles of the bags.

“I’ve noticed an alpha picking up Jolene today,” he begins carefully, watching as Rachel’s face lights up in recognition.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Styles?”

Louis’ heart skips a beat at hearing that name. Sephora continues. “He’s been picking her up after school for several weeks now! He’s very nice, very shy too. Doesn’t like to linger in one place too long. I got to talk to him once. He adores Jolene.”

“Oh,” is all he says, thinking back to the big smiles on both Harry’s and Jolene’s face. So what if Jolene’s mother, Isabelle, has decided to try for a relationship again? What if she’s trying to build her life again after losing her alpha? He should be happy for her, and Jolene, who might find a father figure in Harry.

But then, why is he so bothered by the concept? He has no right to feel that way. Harry has stopped being his a while ago; it’s only natural for the alpha to try and find a partner, especially after being away at war for six years. He waves at Sephora then walks to the gate, the piece of paper with Harry’s address scribbled across it burning a hole in his coat’s pocket. The tote bag creates red marks against his palm as he crosses the street, Harry’s address hopping around his brain. There’s the lingering sight of Harry with Jolene in his brain, but he quickly pushes it to the back of his thoughts and decides to pass the time at his favourite little café, knowing he isn’t expected for at least an hour. 

Swirls of white steam and the scent of hot chocolate and coffee beans greet him as he steps into the café. The polished wood underneath his feet is reassuring, helps to bring him back to earth, allows for his thoughts to be taken off the ice-slippery cement outside. As he breathes, condensed dew leaves his lips, spills into the air, and fades into nothingness. He goes to the counter and orders a cappuccino, and a blueberry muffin; something sweet that will contrast with the sour taste on his tongue, not from anything he’s drunk or ate; but from the gut-wrenching jealousy that bubbles within him. He has no right, he knows it, but it’s so, so hard to will himself to act like a reasonable being.

But reason’s never been his strongest attrait; so he takes his jealousy and his order to the little table near the window, and sits at it with his heart in his throat. Outside, little snowflakes have begun falling, tiny like the sharp fragment in his heart that scar the organ until blood doesn’t pump through his veins, but swim into his entire body, colour his skin into a crimson colour; a blush or the cold are what people would think his flushed cheeks are, but in reality, it’s Pain taking a brush and dragging the colour red all over his conscience. With a sigh he brings the hot cup to his lips, and barely flinches as the steaming hot liquid burns his tongue.

  
  


_Hands on his waist like a belt, secure, warm, soft; unhesitant. He leans back against the warm chest, tilts his head back over a firm shoulder; and glances up into green, gentle eyes. Red lips entice him, their cupid bow asking to be traced slowly with his tongue. He smiles and lets himself be cuddled, letting Harry wrap his entire body around his. The sheets are messy with the remainder of their love making, with the spilled drops of their passion. He rolls over and blinks down at the alpha, ducks his head to kiss those lips, feel a tongue slide between his own, soft, oh so soft. Harry kisses him like he talks; it’s slow, meaningful, gentle with just the right amount of excitement. The alpha spins them around so he’s pinned down, fringe falling into his eyes, making him blink quickly. Long, thick fingers reach up to brush the fine strands back, and as Harry trails his thumb over his nose, his cheek, down to the corner of his lips, he opens them and takes it into his warm mouth._

_Harry’s eyes darken._

  
  


He gasps slightly and shakily puts down the cup lest the sweet liquid would slosh over the porcelain’s edge. He hates that he can’t let go of these memories; loathes that he still cherishes them after all this time. He breaks a piece of the muffin, brings it to his tongue, chews slowly.

_1934.T_ _he first time he sees Harry, and coincidentally, the first time Harry sees him, they’re rowdy high-school students among a crowd of sweaty bodies. Alcohol perspires from people’s pore, arousal lurks in the corners of the room; giggles echo from the bedrooms upstairs, camouflaged by the music, a mix of guitars and violins and shouts and laughter. He isn’t quite sure why he is even there; his brother has dragged him down to something he had described as ‘fun.’ He hasn’t touched a drop of liquor, knows that he’ll regret it if he doesn’t go against his curiosity to taste the stinky liquid, but he has allowed himself to dance at least, shirt sticking to his body. The room’s dark except for the faint glow of lamps. Glancing to the sides, he finds his brother near a pretty girl, smiles on their faces; he quickly darts his eyes away, lips twitching. He scans the room for a quiet corner, wanting to rest a bit, gather his wits; but instead he meets green, green eyes, and his entire body locks, fingers jerking nervously._

_His heart skips a beat as he spots one of his friends standing right next to the handsome, green-eyed stranger, waving him over._

_And slowly, his feet move._

  
  


He bites the inside of his cheek from inattention, winces as blood meets his tongue. He sucks on the wound without meaning to, dropping his forehead into his hand. He can’t let himself be distracted, especially not minutes before he is meant to meet up with Harry. He needs to be numb for tonight, experience the situation with a clear head, shouldn’t let his emotions get the better of him and ruin the night. He reckons he might soothe out his omega once he’s gotten his fill of Harry’s scent.

The clock strikes seven in the afternoon. He gathers his bags and steps out of the café. Night has fallen already, the moon shines in the distance. Snow has begun piling up on the ground, and he’s careful as he walks around chunks of it, going to the neighborhood where Harry lives. The alpha’s address is a mantra in his mind; an applause of words and letters and fearful expectations. He rubs his cold-bitter nose, sniffs, and draws his coat closer to his body. Lamps cast a yellowish glow over the streets, rendering it easier to navigate through the streets. Harry’s neighborhood is modest, discreet; it’s a succession of red-bricked buildings, with narrow windows overlooking the shore and the wet cobblestone streets. He gulps as he reaches a three-story building, glancing up at one of the windows lit up by a light, dull because of the drawn windows. _It’ll be alright,_ he mutters to himself, licking his lips and going to the building’s door. He pushes it open, hoisting his slipping bag’s strap higher on his shoulder, tightening his fingers around the tote bag, putting his foot on the first step.

Apartment 48 is on the highest floor, and he’s breathless when he reaches it. His shoulder aches slightly, and the tote bag leaves bright red marks over his palm, but he welcomes the pain with open arms, finding it a great distraction from the fact that Harry is standing behind the door at the end of the corridor. The carpeted floor renders his steps noiseless, though it means it’s silent enough for him to hear his heart beating; _thump thump thump._ A frantic, loud rhythm that contrasts spectacularly with his expressionless face. He’s about to knock on the dark oak door, but it swings open before he can do it, revealing Harry in all of his messy curls, thin stubble, wide pants and wrinkled shirt glory. He stops breathing as Harry’s eyes focus on him, dark because of the gloom surrounding them, the only source of light coming from inside the room.

“Sorry,” Harry clears his throat, stepping to the side to let him enter, which he does, getting dizzy as he’s attacked by the alpha’s scent. It seeps into his skin, makes it burn as if his body were being held over a crackling fire; _agony, agony, agony._ “I could smell you from downstairs,” the alpha admits, voice soft. He blinks in stupor, not expecting for Harry to confess such a thing; and his stunned expression must spur the alpha to give an explanation. “It’s very,” Harry gulps, unsure of the words he should use. “It’s very distinguishable.”

 _My scent? Distinguishable?_ He feels himself freeze as he remembers words muttered in the night, when they had just begun dating. 

  
  


_“You’re tickling me,” he laughs as Harry presses his nose against his neck, where his scent gland thrives under the attention. Harry hums and kisses the spot._

_“I can’t help myself,” Harry admits. “I love your scent. It’s soft, addictive; it’s distinguishable. I could spot it even if you were lost in a bustling crowd.”_

  
  


He exhales as Harry closes the door behind him, and to push the memory away lest it’d begin to taint his mood, he takes in the clean, cramped apartment.

Flowers dot the pieces of furniture, bringing spots of colour to the blank white walls. He gently sets his sleeping bag by the wall, where Harry’s shoes are stacked, and turns to the alpha, finding him standing by the door awkwardly. They don’t say anything for a moment, content with just gazing at each other. It’s been so long since they’ve stood alone in an empty room, and their scents merge together, haven’t changed at all even though all these years. His own body relaxes as he soaks in Harry’s scent, his omega purring in satisfaction, content to be near its alpha — not Louis’, but his omega’s. He looks down and slowly takes his coat off, going to the coat rack to hang it up; right besides Harry’s bigger, bulkier coat. He waits a second, fingers gripping onto the soft, damp fabric of his coat, trying to compose himself. Then, once he’s half convinced he won’t pass out, he grabs the tote bag and holds it out to Harry.

“Here,” he smiles tentatively, his inner wolf howling in joy as the alpha takes the bag with a slightly startled, though grateful face. Harry’s face turns even more surprised as he feels the bag’s weight, and realizes there are groceries inside; the things he meant to buy weeks ago but couldn’t.

Harry blinks at him, ringed fingers tightening around the black fabric of the bag. “Thank you,” he smiles genuinely. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” he answers. “It’s no problem.”

Harry nods, bringing the tote bag to the kitchenette. “Right,” he grins for a second, then it’s gone as he takes the things from the bag and goes about organizing them. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He looks around at the single room, from the bed pushed to the far right corner, next to the window, to the little coffee table covered by books. There’s a round carpet on the tiled ground, and a door that, he supposes, leads to the bathroom. It’s a studio, really, rather than an apartment, and he is surprised Harry has decided to pick up something so tiny when back then he has insisted on them getting a spacious area to live, despite them being in slight financial straits. He slowly creeps to the bed and sits at the edge of it, glad that it is big enough for two people. The blanket smells strongly of Harry, and particularly the pillows, and deep down he yearns to rub his face in them. He flushes and stares at the books on the coffee table.

“I’ll make tea,” Harry announces, already pouring water in a pot which he puts over the stove.He lets the water boil until the popping of the bubbles can be heard, echoing all around the room. Cups are put down onto the counter, tea bags are dropped into them, and all the while there’s tension crackling in the air. He avoids looking at the alpha completely, afraid of what the sight will sire within himself — feeling that there’s a carnal need resting over his gut, waiting to attack. Instead he lets his fingers caress the blanket, feel its plush, and pictures his body sinking into it; onto a cloud of the alpha’s scent. He doesn’t really need to imagine it when he’ll get to experience it soon, but then his brain goes over to no man’s land, and he sees Harry’s arm wrapped around his waist, his morning wood pressed against the curve of his arse… he flushes, eyes widening, and quickly sits down on the ground, reaching for one of the books.

“May I?” he wonders, hand hovering over a bright red novel, the colour drawing his attention, slightly dull underneath the orange glow of the lamps around them, but still most distinguished compared to the other, brownish covers.

“Of course,” Harry’s lip twitches into a little grin, and after pouring the water, he comes over, sitting down on the bed. His knees are on the same level as Louis’ head, and had it been six years prior, he would have leaned to the side to rest his temple against the hard bone. As it is, he remains where he is, and pulls the book on his thighs. He’s surprised when the first thing he spots is stains - lots of them, littering the leather, deep, deep, _deep_ like bullet wounds. He caresses them with the tip of his digits, guess the story etched in them. 

“Rotterdam,” Harry breaks the silence, cradling his hot cup of tea with his big hands. Louis blinks and glances at the alpha, silently wondering what he means. Harry jerks his head towards his hands. “Found that book in Rotterdam.”

“Oh,” he breathes, carefully opening it up, delicate with the stiff, waverly pages; a sign that it has been subject to water. He goes to discover the lines of the book — _Crime and Punishment_ by Fyodor Dostoyevsky — when Harry’s hand comes to rest above his -warm, slightly sweaty, rough like a battered bough that has seen weathers after weathers. He freezes and looks down, heart squeezing tight when he sees the way Harry’s long fingers cover the entirety of his hand. A weight, reassuring, familiar yet so alien; a weight that both taunts and haunts him.

“Wait,” Harry gulps, large green eyes never staying away from his face, and he can see the doubt, the apprehension, swimming within those irises like broken fragments of an emerald. “I—” he stops himself, unsure, so unsure of what to say.

“It’s alright,” he reassures Harry, tentatively putting his other hand on top of Harry’s. “You can trust me.”

Harry frowns. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “But I don’t trust the memories etched within those pages.”

He knows Harry is talking about his own memories; not the stories told by Dostoyevsky, but the ones he’s gone through and that have left their very own words upon those books’ pages. And indeed, as he turns to the first page, he finds bloody fingerprints maring its whiteness, like a lone rose against a landscape of snow. His fingers shake as he puts his thumb over one of the fingertips; it’s bigger than his finger, the pattern slightly blurred. He feels his throat clog up as he imagines Harry’s red-smeared hand holding the book, trying to find a bit of inner peace among a world of chaos.

“Are they painful?” he asks slowly, going through the book not to read the words, but to discover the extent of Harry’s suffering; finding more and more blood stains in random places, counting the dog ears and lines of wet soil.

“Tremendously,” Harry nods then hastily gestures for his cooling cup of tea. “Won’t you drink?”

He hums and reaches for the cuppa, having forgotten about it, lost into Harry’s world and emotional that he’s been let in it at all. He’s getting glimpses of Harry’s life at war, and he’s discovering the alpha all over again. He takes a sip of the lukewarm liquid and gently closes the book, bringing it back to its place on the table. The silence that settles is mellow like sweet coffee.

Then Harry stands up, taking their cups and going to the sink to wash them. Green eyes glance at him quickly. “Are you hungry? I’ve made some pasta.”

He’s not. How could he be when he’s with Harry again? The alpha makes his guts tighten, makes his heart beat out of sync. Nonetheless he nods, glancing to the side at the closet made out of firm cedar wood. Harry’s scent seeps through its hinges, soft and enticing, and he wants to throw its doors open and inhales the clothes folded in there; and he knows, God he knows just how ridiculous he sounds, pining over his former alpha — _not quite alpha,_ his conscience scoffs. _Your ex-boyfriend,_ — but he can’t help the way he feels, just like no one can help the shitty weather. He sniffs and hugs his legs even closer to his chest, smiling softly as Harry puts tomato sauce pasta with cheese; it’s simple, but heat spreads across his chest, resulting in flowers blooming in his veins, petals falling to his lower belly, tickling it. He likes the sight of Harry cooking for them; it reminds him of forbidden memories.

  
  


_“It smells good,” he drawls out, stepping into the kitchen, hair still wet from his bath, drops of water sliding down his neck, his back. His thin shirt is stuck to his skin from dampness, Harry’s pants pooling down over his feet, the waistband folded over itself several times though it keeps sliding down every once in a while. He loves those trousers, which is why he insists on wearing them — and he especially loves the way Harry’s eyes turn fond whenever he sees him in them._

_And they do, right this instant, as he glances over his shoulders, spatula in his hand and a frizzling pan in the other. His green eyes sparkle as they look at him, love swirling within them, honest and vibrant like a shooting star. He breathes out and walks closer to his alpha, circles the muscular waist with his arms, intertwining his fingers and cheekily pressing them against Harry’s clothed crotch; acting innocent, ignoring the way Harry growls, a warning that both asks him to stop and begs him to carry on._

**_“You_ ** _smell good,” Harry retorts, turning off the stove and whirling around, pulling their bodies flush together, burying his nose behind the omega’s ear, trailing it down the soft neck; and biting slightly over Louis’ bond gland, making the omega whimpers in want._

Not yet, _they both think, knowing it’s too soon. But the need to belong to one another in every sense of the term hangs in the air like stubborn fireflies in twilight, and they soothe the ache with presses of their lips and skin against skin._

_“‘Love you,” Harry groans as his hands stalk down Louis’ back, into the trousers, grabbing his full arse cheek. The fragrance of cooked eggs is awaiting for them, but they quickly forget about it as their very own natural scents pollute the air around them, filling every nook and cranny of the room._

_The eggs turn cold, but their love crackles like a smoldering wildfire._

  
  


A hand appearing in his vision, and a softly muttered “Here,” are what startle him out of his daydream. He’s quick to accept the hot bowl, steam rising out of it, puffing at the end then fading away. 

“Thank you,” he smiles, hunger beginning to blossom now that he has food underneath his nose. He gets a little nod in return, then he watches as Harry slowly makes the trip back to the fridge, probably to fetch something to drink, and it’s then that he notices the slight limp - not noticeable if one doesn’t bother really looking, but now that he’s seen it, he can’t take his eyes off the alpha. Fear begins to grip at his guts, questions coursing through his mind like a brook in a storm; _did he hurt himself? If so, why didn’t he tell me? I could have helped him!_ He straightens up as he takes in Harry’s clenched jaw, the way his nostrils flare.

He is slow as he brings two glasses and grape juice to the table, and even slower as he begins to make his way to the bathroom’s door. “I’ll be back,” he grits out through a tense little smile, then leaving a stunned omega sitting on the floor in front of his bed, he disappears, fingers twitching, nervous. Louis stares at the door with a bowl of pasta blowing smoke into his face, and through the haze it creates, he can tell there’s more to Harry than he thinks. He waits patiently, fingers tight around his fork as he stuffs his mouth. It’s plain pasta with a bit of herbs to spice the sauce up; it’s fresh and nice, but he can’t focus on it. Especially when the doorknob twists and out Harry steps, still tense, unsure in his movements as he slowly walks to the bed. He’s gentle as he sits down on the mattress, and delicate as he grabs his own bowl of pasta. 

_Talk to me?_ he wants to say, yearning to pretend that he can be a source of comfort to the alpha when too many broken promises and memories taint their relationship. But he’s genuinely concerned at the pain etched into Harry’s face, so sudden when minutes ago he seemed fine. He plucks up courage and angles his body so that he’s facing the alpha, gently taking their bowls and putting them on the table; there’s no use for them, not when he needs Harry to be honest with him. He knows what war can do to one person, has read about what a bullet does to a body, and if Harry is hurt, he needs to know. He is there to make the alpha feel better, and if besides sleeping with the alpha, he can help treat a wound, then he has to know about it. His heart pangs as he thinks about the alpha dealing with the aftermath of the war all on his own. There’s so much a single person can endure.

He isn’t hesitant as he takes Harry’s hand, doesn’t think twice about it as he sits on the mattress, close to the alpha, releasing soothing pheromones. He sees the way Harry’s eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting for him to use his scent to air out the tension, but the grateful grin he gets in return is worth it.

“You should tell me what’s wrong,” he says, bracing himself for Harry’s reaction. There must be a reason Harry hasn’t brought up the pain he’s going through, but they can’t progress if they aren’t honest with one another. “You’re hurting,” he adds. Harry has always had troubles with his back, suffering from recurring back pain especially after long days of work. But he can tell, even now, even after all these years, that it’s not the back pain that causes Harry's eyes to twitch in discomfort, or for his chest to heave, begging for release, clearly holding back because of him.

With a sigh, Harry glances down. “It’s not pretty.”

His heart skips a beat. “I don’t mind.”

A bit passes. Green eyes glance at him, the alpha’s scent taking an acetous undertone, a sure sign that he is nervous. It seems he’s about to reveal the source for his pain not because he wants to, but more out of necessity, and Louis can respect that. So he lets the alpha take his time, tries to come up with something to say, but he finds himself going through the list of doctors he knows, afraid that Harry’s come back from war with an infected wound — and what is he to do? He is no doctor. He might just scold the alpha for not taking care of himself. 

“Right,” Harry says to himself, seemingly accepting the fact that he has to give even more pieces of himself to Louis. “It’s my leg,” he admits.

Louis licks his lips. “May I see it?”

A jerk of the head from the alpha is all he needs to bend down and grabs Harry’s trousers, near his calf, planning on rolling it up gently; but he’s stopped.

“Other leg,” Harry stresses out, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress. 

He looks up at the alpha, worried. He isn’t sure if the pain in Harry’s voice is from whatever wound that’s marring the skin of his leg, or the apprehension he feels from the omega discovering it. He won’t coax Harry into doing something he isn’t ready. “Harry, if you don’t want me to know, it’s alright. I won’t be offended.” 

“It’s—,” he cuts himself short, fingers tightening in the fabric of his trousers, the rings digging into his own skin — and he yearns to reach out and prevents the alpha from hurting himself, but he fears that by doing so, he’ll remove the last bit of security the alpha has built around himself. Harry continues speaking, squaring his shoulders, straightening up his back. “I’ll do it myself.”

Before Louis can say anything, or even comprehend that Harry has propped up his socked foot on the coffee table, light brown trousers are being lifted, tense fingers pulling it up, and his heart stops as, instead of skin and body hair, he’s met with a leather shin surrounded by a hollow wood core and leather padding. Folding the trousers to the knee, and leaving the entire prosthesis uncovered to Louis’ frozen eyes, Harry bends over to remove the sock that has been concealing a foot made out of wood: plain, simple, and without the outlines of the toes. He gulps, digits twitching, wanting to reach out and caress the artificial leg that is both so alien to the alpha but seems to wholefully belong to him.

“It’s one of the best prostheses out there,” Harry begins, voice soft. “Most British soldiers that lost a leg got them. They allow, with the right training, for us to walk rather naturally though it requires a lot of back and core strength,” he pursues his lips. “As you know, I’ve always had back pains.”

A little smile blesses his grim face, and Louis softens, remembering all the times back then when he would force Harry to lie face down onto their thin mattress, and when he would cradle the alpha’s hips with a bottle of scented oil in his hand. 

“Grandpa Styles,” he jokes, eyes flicking between Harry’s face and his fake leg, trying to decide what he should say next, afraid that he might trigger a bad reaction if he isn’t careful enough. Curiosity is a flaw of his, though. “Do you mind… telling me what happened?” he says, hesitant, yearning to know another bit of the alpha, longing to feel even closer to Harry, greedy, greedy, _greedy._

Harry begins to untie the prosthesis, his soft eyes glancing at him. “It’s a story for another time.”

And Louis can respect that, heart both heavy with what he’s just discovered and warm from Harry being confident that there _will_ be another time. He nods, and stands up, rubbing his clammy palms down his trousers, stubbornly glancing all around the room but at Harry as he removes the prosthesis. Somehow, it feels too intimate a moment to intrude.

“If I can,” he says, going to his bag and taking out his pyjamas. “I’d like to shower before bed.”

“Of course,” Harry gestures widely at the bathroom’s door, gently laying the prosthesis down. Louis feels his heart clench as he sees the severed limb, which has been amputated right above the knee. The skin has healed nicely, at least, except for obstinate stitching wounds that will fade only with time, and it’s with relief that he steps in the tiny bathroom, and locks the door, Harry’s scent prominent within those four walls.

He’s acting from pure memory muscles as he undresses and gets into the shower, his toes curling as they meet the cold porcelain. Hot water swirls down his back, his arms, over the curve of his ass. There’s only a bottle of shampoo and a square of soap, which he uses all over his body, getting whiffs of peaches. It’s a soft scent, one that he’s never quite been able to notice on Harry since the alpha’s scent is particularly potent, but he figures it must be nice to smell Harry when he is fresh out of shower, his rugged scent softened by the fragrance of fruits.

He can’t, no matter how much he tries, get the memory of Harry’s severed leg out of his mind. He wonders just how deep Harry is hurting. The alpha he remembers from before the war would have never fared well with losing a limb, but he isn’t sure if the alpha sitting on the bed right now is doing any better. He closes his eyes as his eyelashes stick together from the water, then once he feels clean enough, unconsciously washing his ass thoroughly — as if tonight will lead to anything else than sleeping — he steps out and takes a fluffy towel that he quickly uses to dry himself. The steam all around him makes his hair sag into his eyes, and he doesn’t brush it to the side until he has his silky shirt and his soft trousers on him. He freezes as he picks up the purple bracelet, its weight bittersweet in his palm. He gulps and clasps it around his wrist because he can change his mind. _It’s procedure,_ he tells himself. _You need this to remember what this is all about._

Barefoot, he pushes the bathroom door open, sighing as the cool air touches his hot skin.

He finds Harry rubbing cream on his thigh, long fingers massaging the skin. He softens at the sight and drops his work clothes into his bag, then he joins Harry on the bed. The alpha looks at him, face expressionless, digits moving over himself automatically, the gesture having been done so many times before that it has become second nature. 

“So,” he breathes out, awkward. “How are we going to do this?”

Harry looks down at the bracelet, eyes flashing. He can’t tell what it is and blinks, confused, as Harry crawls up the bed, resting his head over the pillow.

“It’s getting late,” he answers, putting a forearm over his forehead, closing his eyes. “Let’s sleep.”

He nods even though Harry can’t see, and he flushes when he sees that Harry has left the side next to the wall empty for him. He feels warm all over that the alpha has remembered he prefers being close to the wall and the farthest away from the door. He stands up and goes to the lamp near the bookshelves to turn it off, then goes back to the bed, fingers twitching as he realizes he has to crawl over the alpha to get to his side. He gulps and does just that, cheeks turning even more red as he feels Harry’s body heat seep into his clothes, to his skin. He lays down, on his back, mirroring Harry except he keeps his eyes open, focused on the ceiling and Harry’s slow breathing.

They don’t talk at all, and it doesn’t take long for Harry to fall asleep. He can tell the world of dreams overtake the alpha when his chest rises steadily, and his entire body goes lax. He remains exactly where he is for a while, unable to find sleep, though he tries his hardest not to alter his natural scent, knowing it is affecting the alpha. Harry’s broad body takes up most of the bed, but he doesn’t mind, used to being cocooned by the alpha. He doesn’t have Harry’s arm over his waist or Harry’s chest pressed to his back, but as he turns on his side, face to the wall, hands coming together underneath his cheek, he can imagine Harry’s warm body against his own.

He closes his eyes and drifts off, mind filled up with all kinds of forbidden memories that he wishes didn’t belong to the past.

  
  


-

  
  


At one point in the night he startles awake, blinking dazedly, trying to chase away the spots of colours that stand out against the gloom of the night. His heart speeds up as he feels a cold nose in his neck, damp, hot air caressing his skin as Harry breathes out. There’s an arm around his waist, pressing him tightly against Harry’s chest, and his eyes flutter shut in bliss, Harry’s scent prominent all around him. He lets himself fully taste the forbidden fruit that is the alpha next to him, knowing it’ll be ripped away from him when morning comes.

  
  


-

  
  


The door of Harry’s flat clicks shut behind him as the first flush of morning colours the sky in hues of orange, purple and yellow, the sound of Harry’s soft snores following him all the way to his house.

  
  


-

  
  


Through the window, snow creates pillows over the ground. Boughs curve down from the ice, heavy as their thin bodies are attacked by the sky. As he breathes out, the glass fogs up, and he half wants to reach out and drag his forefinger through the condensation, to draw a shape. A tuck on his trousers brings his attention back to the classroom, and he glances down, finding Jolene’s big eyes blinking up at him. He smiles softly as she waves a sheet of paper.

“I’ve finished my drawing,” she smiles, missing teeth and all, her cheeks flushed. He crouches down.

“May I see it?” he breathes out, gentle, and she eagerly nods, angling the drawing in a way that he can see it clearly. It’s full of colours with three stick figures drawn in the middle, with a smoking house in the back. His heart turns to ice as he spots a mess of brown pencils on top of one of the people. “What do we have here?” he wonders, careful, grinning tenderly at her as she excitedly points at everything she drew.

“This is me,” she informs him, a digit on a little girl in a bright pink dress. “This is mommy,” she then says, moving to a taller stick drawing with a purple dress. “And this is Harry,” she concludes, pointing at the messy curls. He exhales sharply and gulps, caressing her head.

“This is very nice,” he tells her, both truthful and nervous. She beams then runs off to her little desk, and he watches her go, hating himself for his thoughts. The fact Harry knows Jolene and her mother, Isabelle, shouldn’t bother him so much. But it does and he can’t help it no matter what. 

He drags his feet to the front of the classroom, and claps his hands to bring all of the children’s attention to him.

“Let’s finish your Christmas cards, alright?” he smiles, slightly strained, but the children are much too innocent to see through the façade. They cheer and begin colouring their cards, writing _Merry Christmas_ to the best of their ability, eyes flicking quickly between the black board, where he had neatly written the words, and the blank surface of their folded card. _Breathe, Louis,_ he scolds himself, busying himself as he goes around to help his kids. _Breathe._

Christmas is creeping closer and closer, lurking around the corner and appearing in the shape of a cold weather and excited smiles. It’s the one time of the year where Whitby shines, where it ceases to be a quiet little sea town. He always looks forward to his birthday and Christmas, usually spending both of them with his friends. This month is no different, although knowing Harry is in the same town as him makes his toes curl and apprehension blossoms in his heart. 

As the years dripped down since his break up with Harry, it had been easy to push the memories they had created together to the back of his head, and to instead focus on the **Now** with more ease. But it’s impossible to do that now, not when Harry’s scent still clings to his pyjamas after that first night spent together, and not when his thoughts are consumed by _Harry Harry Harry Harry._ So he starts the month with a newfound kind-of dread, the feeling consuming him as he goes about his days working at the school and sleeping over at Harry’s.

Today, Harry doesn’t pick Jolene up. Instead, it’s Isabelle who smiles softly down at her daughter, her face much thinner since the last time he saw her. Instantly, guilt gobbles him up as he watches the scene from his spot by Sephora’s office. She must suffer immensely from having lost her alpha — and here he is, being jealous over her when she has all the rights to build her life back up, even if she incorporates Harry in its foundation. He feels awful, awful enough that tears sting his eyes as he goes to fetch his bag.

And besides the pain, there’s also anger; palpable, prominent. It’s a flower that has grown on his heart, and is slowly blooming, growing in size as its petals unfold. He has yet to understand why Harry has sought out the help of an omega through Dreamland, when he seems to be dating Isabelle. Isn’t it unjust to her? Does she even know that Harry sleeps with another omega, to help him through the night? He doesn’t want to assume every omega out there is in the same boat as him when it comes to feelings, but if he had an alpha and found out said alpha used another omega to help him out with his struggles, then he’d be pissed. He is aggressive as he grabs his bag, and frantic as he hastily makes his way out of school.

Guilt becomes worse, turns into a storm, ends up fading into remorse, because he is going over to Harry’s, and he is going to sleep with the alpha again, and all the while he’ll have Isabelle’s ashen face in the back of his mind. _Traitor traitor traitor,_ his conscience chants. _I know I know I know_ he laments right back. He hates that there’s this stain on his conscience, and this weight on his shoulders; but he decides tonight might be when he’ll get some answers. He isn’t quite ready to give up the program, or Harry for that matter - not when his pale skin has found its way back to its usual, slightly tanned colour, and not when he hasn’t been sick in days, his omega purring in joy.

But he might not be ready, responsibility is something he’s always owned up to; and if he has to break it off with Harry, then he’ll do it.

He won’t be the reason for Isabelle’s heartbreak, even if in the process, he breaks his own heart.

Harry’s door is clouds of nightmares and dews of temptation concealed behind the illusion of paradise. As he knocks, and hears Harry’s ‘come in!’ he feels a lot like the goat stepping into a lion den. It doesn’t help that Harry’s voice is breathless, slightly strained, and when he steps inside the flat, he finds the alpha doing push-ups in the middle of the studio, biceps bulging, tank top drenched in sweat. He stands in the doorway, frozen, heat pooling into his lower belly like molten lava. Harry is clueless to his shocked state, continuing his push-ups, showing off a tremendous amount of strength as he does them with one single leg. He gulps and drops his bag, leaning against the wall and just appreciating the sight of a sweaty alpha.

 _You shouldn’t do that,_ his inner voice reminds him. He ignores it. He’ll be reasonable later.

He jumps into the shower at one point, scrubbing his skin harshly, imagining his skin is the outer layer of his brain and he’s sending down the drain every conjured image of the sweaty alpha working out right outside the bathroom door. He doesn’t need to tease himself anymore lest he’d slick up.

He dresses up and steps out, steam puffing out from behind him, spilling into the studio. He finds Harry drinking water by the sink, crutches propped up against the counter, and his green eyes instantly find him. He hasn’t grown accustomed to the way the alpha’s eyes soften as they land on him. He still remembers the stone-faced alpha he stumbled upon weeks ago, and he’s still getting used to the rare expressions that bless the alpha’s face.

Especially since most of them are addressed to him.

He smiles tentatively as he comes to the kitchen counter and sits on the stool.

“How was your day?” Harry grins, instantly grabbing a cup and pouring hot water over a tea bag. After adding a dash of milk, he gives the cup to Louis, who takes it gratefully. He sips on the steaming hot liquid, alternating between blowing over it and drinking, trying not to flush as he feels Harry’s eyes on him. Will he ever get used to being the centre of Harry’s attention? Probably not, and it’s probably for the best.

He remembers he was asked a question a second too late, clearing his throat and flushing. “Sorry,” he smiles sheepishly. “It was good. We made Christmas cards and sang Christmas songs.”

Harry’s eyes sparkle. “Wish I were there to witness that,” his lips twitch in a grin. “I remember how you’d spend every second of December singing the same songs. I was torn between shutting you up with my kisses or letting you sing because your voice is my favourite thing in the world.”

They both freeze as soon as the words are out of Harry’s mouth. They curl around them like ropes, and form knots that are too complex to be untied. Harry hops on his foot as he turns around, his palms flat on the counter, face unreadable now that he can’t see it. His eyes find the stains in the wood of the counter, gently putting down the hot cup, feeling conflicted in a way he hasn’t expected. Speaking his mind has never been a problem to him, and yet he can’t bring himself to ask about Isabelle, when he should - especially after such a comment. Harry can’t be going around talking about kissing him when he… when he has Isabelle on the other side of the bridge. He takes a deep breath and finishes the tea, hesitantly going to the sink, his body brushing Harry’s back. 

He can feel, even if the touch is a flutter of wings, the heat radiating off the alpha’s body, and he almost trips over air as he’s hit with a particularly strong whiff of alpha scent, enhanced by the drying sweat. _Oh my god,_ he thinks, dazed as he washes his cup clean scrubbing it a bit more than necessary. If Harry were his, he’d take the alpha in his arms and kiss his soft lips; he’d enjoy the sweetness of his saliva and the tanginess of his sweat, he’d let himself be bent over the counter… they’d do so much.

As it is, Harry is not his alpha, and will probably never be.

“I’m not hungry,” he announces suddenly, whirling around and quickly going to the bed, angling his body in a way that would allow him to walk by Harry without touching the alpha. He doesn’t think he can swallow anything, not when there are words clogging up his throat.

“Alright,” Harry mutters, voice soft and low, vulnerable. He wants so bad to take the alpha in his arms, but instead he climbs in the bed and lays on his side, and he stares at the blank wall. Guilt is painful; it’s a slow drag of a blade through his chest, and his hands and feet are tied and he can’t shy away from the torture. The blade reaches his heart as he hears Harry moves, crutches hitting the ground, then the bathroom door opens, and closes.

He turns his head and buries his face in the pillow which is drenched in a sweet mix of his own scent and Harry’s. The tears want to fall, but they don't. Instead, he waits patiently for Harry to come out of the bathroom, pretending to be asleep, slightly lulled by the clumsy noises the alpha makes - from the lamps being switched off, the room bathing in darkness, to the crutches hitting the ground as Harry drops his body on the mattress. He holds his breath as everything is silent for a moment.

“Louis?” Harry whispers, the alpha shifting closer.

He doesn’t answer. Instead he squeezes his eyes shut, and focuses on breathing evenly. _Another time,_ he tells himself. _Today isn’t the day._ Instead, he stays still as Harry wraps his arm around his waist, pulls his body back into his firm chest, and promptly falls asleep.

He stays awake a while longer.

  
  


-

  
  


“Louis!” Benjamin smiles, warm eyes glancing at him from the desk. He grins back and walks closer to the beta, sitting down with a frosted sigh. Today is the first check up since therapy began between Harry and he two weeks ago, and he dreads the questions he knows he’ll be asked. 

“How’ve you been?” Benjamin wonders as he stands up and looks through the neatly organised files, finding Louis’ and brandishing it with a winning grin. He takes from it a clean printed sheet of paper and slides it across the counter, and with clammy hands, Louis takes it.

“Great,” he mumbles, picking up a pen. He misses the way Benjamin frowns, and instead focuses on the first question,

 _Has the alpha made you feel uneasy in any way, shape, or form?_ He crosses the _No,_ finding that he is telling the truth. Harry has been accommodating and has gone out of his way to make his flat feel a bit more like home. The alpha hasn’t minded it at all when he has asked whether he could bring over his own novels and favourite snacks. Harry has gone as far as letting him occupy a portion of his closet, and now their clothes stand side by side, a sight that more than once has made him flush in both stupor and pleasure, be it in the classroom or at his house or around his friends. As he reads on and answers, he is truthful from start to finish. _Has the alpha suffered from nightmares since therapy began?_ He answers yes, remembering that one time he woke up to soft whimpers coming from Harry’s mouth. It hadn’t been anything violent, and all he had to do was cup the alpha’s face and pull his face closer to his throat, scenting the room until the fear-infused whimpers turned into soft snores. 

He exhales as he cups the pen back and gives the sheet of paper back, licking his lip. Benjamin quickly goes over it, humming in satisfaction then carefully putting it back in the file. Then he crosses his hands over the desk, eyes on the omega, assessing. 

“Your answers are quite reassuring,” Benjamin begins. “Though if there’s anything plaguing you,” he continues in a softer voice. “You can tell me.”

He munches on his bottom lip and leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. Deep down, he doesn’t want to stop therapy, or change alphas; he is close to Harry in an unconventional way, almost toxic if reading between the lines, because the doubt, the guilt, the pain are eating at him bit by bit and he has no idea of what will remain once everything goes quiet.

“Can—” he begins, uncertain, meeting Benjamin’s gentle eyes with his own very hesitant ones. Finally, he manages to get the question that’s been hopping around his head for a while. “Can an alpha in the program be dating an omega, while also seeing one through the program?” 

Benjamin blinks, seemingly not having expected the question. “No,” he frowns. “Every alpha has attested to being single. That’s the entire point of the program.”

His fingers grip the fabric of his trousers, tightens until he can feel his nails dig into his palm. Has Harry lied? Has he been seeing Isabelle long before signing up to the program? Or has he only recently started going out with her? If so, why is he still in the program? Isn’t Isabelle enough? Does he wish to taunt Louis?

So many questions remain unanswered as he leaves Dreamland’s office and goes back to his house, the skin around his fingers beginning to bleed as he munches over it, nervous, hurt, and feeling trapped in a shining golden trap, the key centimeters too far for him to take it and set himself free.

  
  


-

  
  


When doubt becomes an overflowing river that threatens to flood an entire city, he goes to his best friend, Niall. Snow is falling steadily outside, and his scarf is pulled over his chapped lips, red nose numb from the cold. His bag hits his thigh as he walks, jostled by his rushed steps as he quickly makes his way to the café where Niall has been waiting for him for fifteen minutes already.

The aroma of grounded coffee beans and vanilla-infused milk greet him as he steps inside, breathing out a puff of white smoke and instantly locating his best friend, sitting by the window, munching on a croissant. He takes time to order himself a coffee, needing it more than anything else after the disastrous night he spent, alone in his own bed, tossing over again and again, thoughts of the green-eyed alpha keeping him awake. He rubs his heavy eyelids with his knuckles, then offers a tired grin to the barista as he grabs the hot cup of milk coffee and walks to their usual table, which of course Niall picked.

“You’re late,” the blond omega grins at him, rolling his eyes as Louis huffs and drops his entire body into the chair, bag carelessly colliding with the ground.

“I know,” he breathes out, sighing happily as the hot cup warms his frozen fingers up. “Sorry about that.”

Niall waves his hand in the air. “Just glad you didn’t fall and break your delicate omega neck on the way.”

He gives his friend a pointed look. “You’re an omega, too, if you’ve forgotten.”

Niall grins mischievously. “Never said I wasn’t. I ain’t delicate like a china doll, though.”

He can’t help the fondness he feels for his ridiculous friend, and it’s good to be seeing Niall again. His carefree soul is enough to lighten Louis’ heavy heart.

“You’re ridiculous,” he smiles, taking a little sip from the hot coffee. It burns his tongue slightly, makes him flinch, but he keeps on drinking, because the pain blossoming on the tip of his tongue is a nice distraction from his heavy heart. Niall doesn’t even bat an eyelash at it, used to his odd antics. He keeps on eating his croissant, sucking buttery fingers in his mouth. It’s quiet for a while, the both of them enjoying the warm of the café that contrasts with the cold outside. Fairy lights have been hung all around the room, making him smile - he’s always been fond of them, and Harry and he used to have them in their tiny flat in London. As soon as the smile comes, it’s gone; the memory is a kick to his chest, and sucking in a sharp breath, he focuses his blue eyes on the rows of Norway spruces dusted with snow that follow the curve of the streets.

“So,” Niall begins, wiping his fingers clean on the tissue provided and leaning back in his chair. “Haven’t seen you in a bit.”

“Uh huh,” he drawls out, pursing his lips in a pout. “Been busy.”

Niall snorts. “If busy begins with an H and ends with an S, trust me, I know,” he narrows his eyes at Louis. “How’s it going, by the way?”

And here it is: the million dollar question, the one whose answer holds so many paradoxes that in the end he isn’t sure it will make any sense. He rubs the back of his neck, glancing up at the ceiling in barely concealed frustration.

“Hm,” Niall grimaces, probably guessing the nature of the answer without him having to open his mouth. “Me and grandma Orla foresaw this.”

He groans softly. “Don’t bring her in this,” he raises his eyebrow at Niall. “But yes, I don’t know what to say to answer your question truthfully.”

“Tough luck,” Niall reaches over the table to take his hand, his thumb rubbing the soft skin. “If you don’t want to talk, then don’t. If you want to, then do. I’m here either way,” the blond omega tells him, voice soft, icy blue eyes warm - an oxymoron that finally coaxes him into speaking.

“I think,” he munches on his bottom lip nervously. “I think Harry is dating someone else.”

Niall blinks, opens his mouth, closes it, blinks again. He frowns. “Like… while doing that therapy thingy with you?”

He nods, taking a large gulp of coffee, not knowing what else to do. “He shouldn’t be dating anyone, is the thing,” he reveals. “The entire point of the program is to help alphas find an omega to help them, with scents and things… if Harry is dating Isabelle, then why does he keep doing the program?” his voice goes quieter. “Especially when _I_ am the omega he got paired up with?”

Niall frowns in thoughts, glancing out of the window. “Are you sure he is dating her?”

He flounders. “Well, no,” he confesses. “But he fetches Jolene at school most days and— and I don’t know?” 

He feels all sort of ridiculous now that he realizes he doesn’t have anything to back his claims, and an odd mix of relief (regarding the fact that he isn’t sure Harry is dating Isabelle) and resentment (that he’s gone so long firmly believing the alpha does) befalls him. His fingernails scratch the unblemished surface of the cup, and his eyes, even though they’re cast downwards, do not miss the way Niall’s gaze settles on him, trying to decipher the depth of his doubts.

“Well,” Niall says at last. “I know what you have to do.”

He perks up and glances at his friend, some hope creating specks of gold in the thick grey cloud that has settled over his troubled mind. 

Niall shrugs. “Just ask him. Honestly, what’s the point of tormenting yourself?”

His shoulders droop in absolute _disappointment,_ and he fixes his friend with a look that echoes the sentiment; and all he gets in returns, in a sly little grin. 

“What?” Niall rolls his eyes. “Honesty will get you out of almost every ugly situation. And may I add, you’ve got nothing to lose. He’s the one who needs you.”

He frowns and shakes his head. “I need him too.”

With a purse of the lips, Niall softens. “I know that, and I can tell it’s been working, that whole therapy thingy… on both ends. But I know you can find someone else. Jason at house 53 is exactly your type,” he finishes with an innocent smirk, hastily leaning back as Louis grabs his balled up tissue paper and throws it at his friend’s head. 

“I hate you,” he says without heat, resting his cheek on his palm, elbow digging into the hard surface of the table and shy, nervous glare focused on the snowy landscape outside.

“You hate that I am right,” Niall corrects with a flick of the wrist, and he feels his lips twitch into a tiny smile of his own.

Because, though it’s hard to admit it, Niall is indeed right. 

  
  


-

  
  


There’s the sweet feeling of skin against his own when he startles awake. Cheap curtains block out the moonlight from spilling into the room, though he doesn’t need sight to understand what’s occurring. The burning body stuck to his back is wet with sweat, and with his heart in his throat, he manages to turn around despite the bruising grip on his waist. Fingernails dig into the thin clothes he calls pyjamas, and he winces as he feels them bruising his flesh; but he doesn’t focus on the pain, but rather, on Harry’s laboured breathing. 

The lack of light does nothing to conceal the distressed tears running down the alpha’s face, and with confident fingers, he cradles Harry’s face and presses it to his throat, releasing soothing pheromones. It works at first, Harry’s limbs relaxing and his sobs turning to discreet, broken whimpers. But then jumbled words spill out from Harry’s lips, and he freezes as he hears his name.

 _“Louis,”_ Harry hiccups, leg pushing against the mattress. He doesn’t let the shock of hearing his own name muttered in such a distressed fashion get the better of him, and he quickly straddles Harry’s hip, using both hands to keep Harry’s head in place.

“Calm down,” he stresses, rubbing his thumbs against the sweaty skin. “Harry,” he harshly says, louder, when the nightmare seems to be consuming Harry’s thoughts to the point even Louis’ scent struggles imposing itself, pushed to a corner by the potent alpha scent that oozes out of Harry’s every pore.

The thrashing becomes nearly unbearable, and more than once he almost topples over from the amount of strength coming from the unconscious alpha. His bottom lip begins to tremble, scared they’ll get hurt if he doesn’t manage to calm Harry down. It’s in moments like this one that he wonders whether therapy is even worth it, where he wants to run out of the door and shout that Harry’s much too damaged to be repaired. But then, he’s also noticed little things that chase those dark thoughts away: the sparkle within Harry’s eyes which hadn’t been there before, the lack of dark circles whose sight used to sire sadness within him… _It’s not your fault,_ he tells himself. _You’re not useless,_ he repeats, closing his eyes and scenting the room, pushing out every ounce of his scent until Harry can’t be smelled anymore, until they’re suffocating. It takes a while, but finally, Harry sags against the mattress, body unmoving except for his chest.

It goes up and down, up and down, up and down, and muffling a tired sob, he bends down and rests his cheek against Harry’s chest, uncaring as the sweat-drenched fabric of the alpha’s shirt sticks to his skin. He hugs Harry’s middle tighter and squeezes his eyes shut, sucking in the tears, and exhaling in relief.

After several seconds, Harry shifts, big hands coming up to his waist, hesitant, startled; when he glances up, he meets Harry’s confused green irises looking wildly all around himself. Then, they settle on him, instantly softening.

“Lou?” Harry mumbles, his arms circling the omega’s body completely as he sits up. He doesn’t say anything else as they cuddle, only tightening his grip on Louis’ body when the omega’s tears join the drops of sweat still sliding down his neck.

“Sorry,” Louis croaks out, sniffing unattractively, flushing when Harry uses his hand to wipe his wet face, uncaring of the mucus, worriedly looking at him. He feels an urge of affection fills him, and it startles him, especially when he finds himself wanting to lean down and kiss Harry’s red, red lips. Instead, he buries his face deeper in Harry’s chest. “Sorry,” he repeats, gulping. “I got scared. You wouldn’t—” he stops himself, throat clogging up.

Harry rubs his back, dropping kisses on top of his head. _“I’m_ sorry,” he sighs, fingers clenching. “I don’t know what overcame me,” he admits, voice low, the confession deafening in the room.

Reluctantly, he gets off the alpha and lays back down on the bed, breathing in and out to calm his racing heart. He watches as Harry passes his fingers through his wet hair, then throws his leg off the bed, bending to grab his prosthesis, which he quickly ties on his thigh, unhesitant even in the dark from months of practice.

“I’ll make us some tea,” Harry says as he uses his arms to stand up, groaning and stretching his sore muscles. He doesn’t answer, tongue-tied, settling on watching through hooded eyes as Harry turns on the light, momentarily blinding him, and goes about making tea, movements clumsy and unsure.

He can’t go back to sleep, still shook to the core after what happened. He tosses around in the dirty, damp sheets until he huffs in frustration and sits up, fluffing up the pillow against the headboard and leaning back, tilting his head back. He can’t help it when, as the whistling of the kettle breaks the silence around them, he thinks about the way Harry had muttered his name, five letters, l-o-u-i-s, but in such a way that he still feels shivers rack through his body. The fear that had laced the word is unknown to him; he’s never heard his name be pronounced with so much heaviness. He wonders what has been occurring in Harry’s brain, what kind of nightmares have come to haunt him. He bites his lips and looks at the alpha, watches as Harry drops all pretence that he’s fine as he limps around the kitchenette. 

When they’re together in the confinement of Harry’s flat, the alpha doesn’t try to walk as if he had both legs; he’s clumsy, his muscles are relaxed, and his steps are heavy. He is completely, wholefully _Harry._ He doesn’t try to put a mask on, he lets his guard down even though sometimes he finds Harry gazing at his missing leg with a hatred that he has been nursing for a long time. He knows Harry isn’t doing fine, probably hasn’t yet accepted that he’s considered as a cripple in society’s eyes. He takes a deep breath and fists the blanket.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he whispers, expecting for Harry to answer negatively, the alpha having a nasty tendency to keep everything to himself, frustration, pain, and anger bottling within his war-battered body. He still asks, though, to show that he cares, to show Harry that there’s someone he can trust.

It’s justified when his lips part in shock as Harry nods, hands shaking as he brings two steaming cups to the bed. He can’t help the way his eyes drop to the prosthesis, to the way it contrasts with Harry’s smooth skin. He feels dews of sadness slide down his conscience as he tries to imagine what it must feel like, to leave a part of oneself among bloodied mud. But deeper, behind the thick layer of sadness, there’s the bone-freezing fear, the awareness that Harry might have died. His entire being sags against a wall, his heart gives out and falls into an endless abyss of nightmares. He can’t think as his fingers close around the burning cup, can’t feel the pain as his skin reddens under the scorching porcelain.

“What happened to you?” he mutters sadly, a tear sliding down his cheek. Harry doesn’t see it as it carves a wet path in the side of his face that’s facing the wall, and discreetly, he wipes it away. He needs to know. He needs to get acquainted with Harry’s demons, otherwise how can he hope to chase them away if he has no clue of how strong they are? 

The mattress dips as Harry sits down, his back to Louis, feet flat on the ground - one of wood, unmoving, the other of flesh and blood.

“It’s not pretty,” Harry breathes out, muscles moving as he brings the cup to his lips, jaw clenching as swallows. He can imagine the alpha’s Adam apple bobbing, but he can’t see Harry’s expression, so he gazes at the wall facing him and lets Harry’s words wash over him. “I find myself getting glimpses of events that I experienced when I was away at war,” he finally admits. “Most of the time—”

Harry stops, exhaling shakily, and Louis wants to reach out and do something to reassure the alpha, but he remains where he is, afraid to break the moment. After a while, Harry collects himself, and his deep voice has taken a faraway undertone, as if, to Louis’ horror, the alpha is re-experiencing the events as he is telling them. He gazes at the lone soul sitting by his side — oh Harry, what kind of pain inhabits your soul?

“It was snowing,” Harry whispers, cup hitting its saucer as he leans forward to put it on the bedside table.

  
  
  


_The Belgian forests of the Ardennes is a snowy landscape; snowflakes rapidly fly by because of the wind. It’s cold, icy particles resting over the bulky tanks, especially his own that he drives through Norville. The town is devoid of souls, destroyed beyond repair. Chunks of walls litter the ground, some turning to dust under the tank’s tracks. The sound the vehicle makes is deafening, his frozen fingers dig into the wheel._

_“Do ‘ya see anything?” Kevin mumbles around a toothpick, squinting through the slit visor. His brown moustache moves as he speaks. He exhales and glances around._

_It’s calm like a dream, cold like a dead body. He shivers._

_“No,” he mumbles, fingers going to his jaw, scratching the hair. His skin is red, burnt by the cold._

_They’re driving past a dilapidated church when the first shell hits the tank. It takes barely a second for it all to happen, for the German tank to appear through the mist, a terrifying, soulless monster capable of all kinds of destruction. Bits get destroyed under the blast; the cold is no more a ghost of what it is as it seeps through the cracked walls of the tank. His mates and he are sent backwards, his body rolls; something digs in his lung… he can’t breathe._

_“Fuck,” Marwan grits out. He glances to the side, uses his hand to push at the cracked surface of the tank. It gives out, and the fresh air bites at his skin._

_“We have to get out,” he croaks out, coughing as whiffs of ash fly to his nose. He grabs Kevin’s shirt and pushes the man out of the tank, and Marwan is about to do the same when a second shell hits them._

_He feels his leg tickle, feels his body drop in temperature; but he doesn’t pay it any mind as he manages to scramble out of the wrecked tank, Marwan helping him._

_The snow is white, but it quickly turns red. Blood, he smells, notices, registers._

_He just doesn’t realize it’s his own._

_They manage to crawl behind one of the broken walls of the church, ground covered by snow. There’s a ringing, buzzing sound in his ears. His temples throb, and he’s still blinking in stupor at what has just occurred; shocked to the core. Marwan grabs him by the back of his shirt and helps him sit up against the rough surface of the wall._

_As the adrenaline begins to fade away, leave his body and seep into the snow, pain blossoms where his legs are, creeps up his back and threatens to make his heart give out. He meets Marwan’s wide, horrified eyes glancing between his eyes and his feet, and he’s about to glance down when Kevin roughly cradles his face, forcing his eyes up._

_“Better if ‘ya don’t look, son,” his older friend grits out, voice calm though his panic-infused brown eyes betray the façade. “Marwan, put some snow on it before he bleeds out.”_

_He understands he is badly wounded, and he hisses in pain as ice is put on where it hurts._

_“Bad?” he manages to get out, blinking quickly as he begins to see blurry. Kevin curses and slaps his cheek._

_“Don’t ‘ya dare sleep, you twat,” Kevin scoffs, nervously looking around. “We gotta get outta ‘ere. Marwan, check if that German bastard’s still lurking around.”_

_He closes his eyes — how easy it would be to go to sleep! It seems peaceful all around them, even though he can’t feel his legs anymore and there’s panic settling in the marrow of his bones. Kevin’s voice sounds far away._

_“You leave me,” he says, delirious, hand blindly reaching for his friend’s face. “I can’t move — I’ll slow you down. Go.”_

_He pats Kevin’s cheek and chuckles, both hot and cold. He closes his eyes and wheezes, struggling to breathe properly. A part within him is aware he is on his way to death; he’s gotten a one-way ticket for his soul to get out of a body that will be left in the frozen soil._

_He doesn’t feel any pain, only the cold settling in his bones._

  
  
  


“It was a good thing they put snow over my severed leg,” Harry leans against the headboard, the both of them gazing at the blank wall. “Because then I would have bled out to death.”

He feels faint as he gazes at the alpha he loves, who he could have lost. Wordessly, he creeps closer until he can rest his head on Harry’s shoulder, and his heart skips a bit as Harry presses his own temple on top of his head. He lets the alpha take his hand, lets big fingers caress his skin. He closes his eyes as he remembers the forbidden letters he would send to Annabelle, Harry’s mother, asking news of her son; remembers the relief that’d befall him when he’d get an answer; _yes, Louis, Harry is alive and well._ The tears he’s shed for Harry over the last six years could quench the thirsty of an entire rainforest. He opens his palm and laces their fingers together, a sight as spectacular as it is unbelievable; he never thought he’d get to do that again. 

“What happened next?” he asks tentatively, eager to know every bit of Harry’s past. Harry squeezes his hand gently.

“Well,” the alpha continues, other hand going to his fake leg, caressing the leather almost melancholically. A wistful smile blesses his tired face. “I woke up to an American soldier’s face staring down at me,” he chuckles. “First thing he said was, ‘you British alphas are tough as fuck’. I was half-dead squinting at his bald, tattooed head. Then he asked me if I could move at all. I told him to give me a cigarette.”

He watches as Harry shakes his head, and he’s amazed that the alpha still manages to smile despite recalling a particularly traumatising event of his life. 

“Then what did the American soldier do?” he wonders, stretching his legs until they lay parallel to Harry’s. The tip of his toes reach just below Harry’s knees, and his lips twitch at the size difference, something he’s always loved about them; when standing up, he’d nuzzle in the soft dust of hair spread across the alpha’s chest, feel the fine strands tickle his skin. He flushes and forces his thoughts to stir to safe territories; in a way, they’re his No Man’s land — they’re filled to the brim with uncertainty. 

Harry’s voice brings him back to earth. “Brought me to one of the nearest american camps. He let me work my way through his pack of cigarettes,” he snorts, moving around until they’re completely pressed to one another. The room’s hot, their skin creates pearls of water, and he yearns for a shower, but he doesn’t move. It’s Harry who stands up, grunting and swaying left to right as he leans against the wall, shaking his fake leg. He watches as the alpha opens a drawer and takes something from it, then comes back, resuming his place by the omega’s side. He tenderly opens Louis’ palm.

“That’s the box of matches,” Harry informs him, and blinking the sleep away, even though he’s felt a lot more awake the moment Harry begins telling him about his accident, he looks down and sees a tiny box of Lucifer matches. The colour has faded away with time, but the drops of blood, although washed out too, stand out against the grey card box like a sore thumb. He feels himself shiver as he caresses Harry’s dried blood, assuming that the dews belong to the alpha. Tears want to break free from his eyes, but he swallows them down; _be strong,_ he urges himself as he memorizes that little square object of the past.

His heart is a pool of mud, and feet are jumping into it, dirtying the ground as they run away… staining his self-control, crumbling the barriers he’s dug deep into the soil all around himself.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he finally finds himself saying, the moment tender, undisturbed despite the demons lurking in the corners. For the first time in a while, he pushes Isabelle, his feelings, the doubt, and the pain behind a veil of disillusion, and loses himself, heart and soul, to a proscribed bliss of Nows, here in Harry’s bed, without a single care for the past, or the future.

  
  


-

  
  


Poplar leaves fly to the dawn as he walks back to his house, a freshly baked _baguette_ in his arms. He’s been craving some for a while now, remembering that one time when he had been a teenager with blossoming pimple scars over his skin and gone to his friend’s house. His mother had been French, and she’d prepare pieces of baguette generously buttered up for them, with cherry preserve and a cup of vanilla-infused tea. His mouth salivates at the thought, and he jogs all the way to his chipped fence, stopping in his tracks when he spots movement among the overgrown weeds of his unkempt garden. Before he can panic, thinking someone’s trying to dig their way into his house, he recognizes Harry’s broad shoulders and his bouncy curls, left uncovered to the icy air.

As he talks, white smokes billow out of his cold-kissed lips. “Harry?” he calls out, pushing the fence open, confusion hanging over his head in the shape of a stormy little cloud, thundering whenever he realizes Harry is in _his_ garden, so close to his safe haven. “What are you doing here?” he frowns, walking closer until Harry’s scent waltzes up his nose despite it being stuffy from the rogue weather.

The alpha straightens up, grimacing openly now that he’s stopped pretending to be perfectly alright, hand going to his prosthetic leg to make sure it hasn’t budged. As Harry’s eyes fall upon him, he sees the sheepish look that spreads over the curly-haired alpha’s face; he finds it both cute and nostalgic, because he hasn’t seen that look in what feels like eternity. He thrusts his hands in his pockets, seeking warmth, baguette underneath his armpit; getting crushed, crumbs falling to the bottom of the paper.

“Hi,” Harry smiles, thick gloves full of weeds twitching by his hips, a weird tool in between his fingers that he must have been used to cut the weeds free from the frozen soil. “What a wonderful garden you have here,” he teases, glancing around the chaotic mess surrounding them.

He licks his lips. “Best one in the entire neighborhood, if you ask me,” he jokes back, eyes going to the house next to his, taking in the fushia coneflowers growing through the gaps in the fence and the pansies kissing the red-bricked walls of the house. Then he blinks at the tumbleweeds littering the ground on which he is standing, and when he looks at Harry, he finds the alpha’s lips twitching, trying to tame an amused smile. He wants to smile back, to joke and all, but he can’t help the way his heart beats out of his chest, because _what on earth is Harry doing here?_ The alpha must sense his confusion for a blush of contrition befalls his face.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Harry sighs, the words coming out of his mouth joining the frosted air, fluttering away like butterfly wings although the omega can feel them linger right behind his ears, a realistic, inconcrete reminder that the alpha is _here,_ less than a breathe away from his home, his nest, his secrets and beholder of his tears and laughs. 

“You’re not,” he half-lies, half-admits, torn between asking the alpha to go away or to step through the doorway. “Just confused, is all.”

Harry nods, gentle. “I asked your friend Niall where you lived. I thought it’d be nice to see each other outside my crappy flat,” he chuckles, bending to grab a bag which sounds heavy with garden tools. “He said he’d tell me on one condition, and it is that I take care of your garden.”

He blinks several times, processing the fact that it’s the Irish blond twat of a friend of his that went and ratted his address out to his ex-alpha, then groans when the last bit reaches his frozen brain. His hand leaves his warm pocket to press against his temple.

“I’m sorry for him,” he huffs, making a split decision as he walks past Harry to his door.

“Why would you be?” Harry calls after him as the alpha remains where he is, in the middle of the garden, probably unsure if he is to follow Louis. “Your garden does need to be tended to.”

“Don’t I know it,” he whispers to himself as he pushes his key into the keyhole, twisting it until a click echoes up to his ear. He pushes the door open and takes a deep breath. He can smell the inside of his house; an alluring, comforting mix of tea leaves and his own scent. _My nest, mine mine mine._ He gulps and glances over his shoulder.

“Are you coming or not?” he says, loud enough for Harry to hear, and he turns around. As he steps through the doorway, he tries not to think about the way the alpha’s eyes lit up.

  
  


-

  
  


There’s something familiar about seeing Harry in a cramped flat. When they were dating and living in the bustle of London, their studio had been large enough to erase all pretence to intimacy. They learnt about each other through glimpses of the others for lack of doors behind which to hide — and at the time, it’s been a delight. Every stolen touch, every languish stroke of their tongues as twilight tinkled in the distance… he remembers the bliss of feeling completely whole with Harry. But as he gazes at the alpha standing in his big living room, in his spacious house, with hidden nook and cranny of secrets and gloomy pieces of furniture of tear stains, he isn’t sure of how to feel — simultaneously empty, unable to make sense of anything, but also hopeful in a way that will, without a shadow of doubt, lead him to his destruction.

“Would you like some tea?” he clears his throat as he puts the baguette down, already going to the kitchen, not waiting for an answer, though it comes in the form of a curious alpha glancing around his space, and creeping closer to him. Harry sits on a chair, green eyes leaving a wet path all around the house; and it takes every fiber of his being not to pick up a rag and wipe it off.

“Do you remember Dostoevsky?” Harry asks, eyes following him as he puts the kettle on. He hums, going on his tiptoes to grab two cups. “Well,” Harry continues. “He said, ‘let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea’, and I’ve been living by that rule for several years now.”

A smile slowly spreads across his face as he turns around, facing the alpha. He grabs the kettle and pours steaming hot water over tea bags, watching Harry through the condensed mist. His lower belly ignites, agony burns its way up to his retina, making tears flood his eyes. Harry’s scent is like a snake coiling up a dead corpse; it caresses his skin, frightening, with eyes on his jugular, ready to strike. His fingers shake as he pushes a cup towards Harry.

“Pretty sure I was born with a bottle of Pg Tips in me mouth, meself,” he quips back, letting his thick accent breaks through, glad when he gets the desired effect; Harry’s smiles, dimples carving in his cheeks, eyes narrowing, slightly bigger front teeth peeking out as his lips part. He grins tenderly, glancing down.

Perfect moments hide flawed truths. His brain, treacherous, snarky, whispers _Isabelle._ The word is dragged out, making his body freeze.

“Is there any reason as to why you came over?” he finally asks, eyes memorizing the way Harry tilts the cup against his lips, the way his Adam’s apple moves up and down as he drinks — his tongue burns with the need to feel the smooth skin, and ashamed of his dirty thoughts, he stares into the brown liquid. _Isabelle Isabelle Isabelle._

Harry frowns. “Ah yes, I almost forgot,” he licks his lips. “Tomorrow I won’t be able to do our session.”

A beat passes during which his guts twist uncomfortably.

“Oh,” he breathes out, heart threatening to beat out of his chest, mind conjuring up all kinds of scenarios as to why Harry has cancelled on them; the worst one yet, is the sight of Isabelle and the alpha sitting at a table, with a flickering candle between them.

A shiver wracks through his body like waves of nausea, and he stuffs his mouth with lukewarm tea to avoid having to say anything. Instead, he only hums, pretending to not care, acting as if everything’s fine. He ignores Harry’s frown, and instead sets his eyes on the landscape outside.

“I’m truly sorry,” Harry repeats, ducking his head to meet Louis’ eyes. “Something came up.”

 _Right,_ he thinks bitterly. _Is that ‘something’ named Isabelle?_

He clears his throat and jerks his head, taking Harry’s empty cup and turning around to go to the sink, where, with a flick of the wrist, he turns on the tap. The gush of water hitting the bottom of the sink fills the silence. It’s awkward, to say the least, and he can’t figure out if he’s responsible for it.

“It’s alright,” he finds himself saying, glancing over his shoulder with a small grin. “I’ll see soon enough anyway.”

Harry hums, seemingly planning on coming closer, but Louis interrupts him.

“That reminds me,” he quickly adds, his tense smile growing. “I have to sort some things, so. I’ll see you soon, alright?”

Harry is able to take a hint, and the alpha freezes, slowly nodding. “Right,” he croaks out weakly, slowly backing up, slightly unsteady on his legs. “Of course, yeah,” he nods to himself, face void of any expression. “I’ll see you soon, Lou.”

He holds himself back from gasping at the nickname; it’s been so long since he last heard it fall from Harry’s lips, and he finds himself trembling as the alpha turns around, grabs his bag, and starts to walk to the front door. _Don’t go,_ his heart begs. _Please leave,_ his brain screams. He stays rooted to the counter as he watches his alpha — _no,_ not his, _not his not his not his_ — walk away, watches as the door clicks shut after Harry’s hunched back.

He hurts all over as the source of his comfort and pain walk away, except the latter remains like an unscratchable itch that just won’t go away. He stumbles forward and holds himself up using the dining table, hating himself in a way he hadn’t expected; his jealousy is unreasonable and consumes him to the marrow of his bones, burn bright like a bonfire, crackling in fury. He needs relief, yearn for that first dew of water against a parched tongue, that most-certainly needed downpour after a day of summer solstice. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Lack of communication has driven them apart; he doesn’t want that to happen again, not when he’s gotten Harry back in his life when he thought that very idea beyond impossible only a few months ago.

“Be mature Louis,” he mutters to himself as he rushes to the door.

The cold air doesn’t deter him from what he’s about to do as his eyes fall upon Harry’s figure, far enough to be a dark spot in the distance. He stumbles upon the overgrown grass, body hitting the fence which swings open under his weight. By chance, he doesn’t fall to the ground and takes off towards the alpha he holds close, too close to his heart.

It seems all too familiar as he comes closer to Harry and his fingers wrap around the muscular arm. He is panting as he headbutts Harry in the back, flushing velvet when Harry snaps his eyes to him, blinking in confusion.

He has thought a great deal about what he would say to Harry regarding Isabelle; in an ideal scenario, he’d calmly explain to Harry that dating an omega while being in the program isn’t allowed, and that he suspects him to be with Isabelle. He’d have told Harry that he isn’t comfortable with continuing therapy if the alpha is seeing someone. Maybe he’d have gotten one or two words about how unfair it is to Isabelle.

Instead, he makes a complete fool of himself.

“Are you dating Isabelle?” he blurts out, fingers digging into his own hands with enough force to hurt. He watches as Harry holds himself steady, one big hand pressed against the damp wall, the other tightly closed around his bag.

The alpha is an odd mix of confusion, shock and bewilderment as he gazes at Louis. _“What?_ ” he blinks, frowning.

His heart turns to mush and goes up his throat. “Isabelle,” he breathes out, anxiously gazing into Harry’s eyes, not wanting to miss if a flicker of doubt appears there, scared to be tricked or life to — not that Harry would lie to him. “I am Jolene’s teacher this year. I’ve seen you pick her up and,” he begins to gamble, gesturing around himself. “And it’s totally fine if you are seeing her mother because- because I know she lost her alpha and of course she has every right to find herself a new partner and I am very happy for you if you are happy with her but I can’t continue doing therapy with you or talk to you because I don’t think it’s right for you to be so intimate with me when you are with—“

“Louis,” Harry manages to croak out, but he doesn’t listen and keeps talking, eyes blurry with tears.

“—her especially if she doesn’t know that you sleep with me in the literal sense of the term to get better because if I were her I would be tremendously jealous not- not that I am jealous but yeah—“

_“Louis.”_

“—and please don’t think I’ve been spying you I’ve just saw you picking Jolene up and I just assumed and- and if I assumed wrong I’d like to know because I am nervously rambling right now and I am terribly sorry for—“

 _“Louis!”_ Harry snaps, a big hand coming up to cradle his face, green eyes, both exasperated and fond, looking into his own blue ones. “Louis, for the love of God, calm down.”

He gasps and snaps his mouth shut, blushing as he feels the heat of Harry’s body seep through his clothes, to his skin. His eyes dance between Harry’s mossy green irises and his blood red lips, bitten by the cold — how he wishes he could lean and kiss them! His eyes widen as Harry leans closer to him, his long, slightly too big for his face nose touching his smaller one. He’s afraid he’s gone cross-eyed from how close they are, white frosted puffs of air leaving their mouths, twirling together… they’re breathing the same air, sharing the same space, feeling each and every flutter of their eyelashes. He tries not to jump as Harry’s arm closes around his waist, drawing them closer.

He feels warm air against his lips; but before Harry can close the distance, he turns his head to the side, lips meeting his cheek. His heart is beating so fast he’s afraid Harry is feeling it where their chests are pressed to one another. Flustered, and refusing to meet the alpha’s eyes, he leans his temple on Harry’s shoulder.

For a while, they remain in each other’s arms, not breathing a single word though he can guess that Harry’s disappointed, but he can’t give into temptation, certainly not now and most likely never — he feels pity admitting it, but he’s still hurt from the way they broke up. He’s felt unwanted and unloved by Harry, felt as if he were something that can be easily discarded, because in the end, isn’t that how Harry treated their relationship? Weeks of tears and camping by the mailbox, waiting for a letter from the alpha, saying they will try even though the war — weeks of his life, gone down the drain for naught. He’s still bleeding and he is yet to find an ointment.

Stepping back and out of Harry’s arms is the hardest thing he has had to do for a while, but it’s necessary. He sees the alpha reach out for him, but quickly snap his arm back to his side.

“I think we need to talk,” Harry finally says, angling his body parallel to the wall and gesturing to the empty street. “Mind walking a bit with me?”

Tongue-tied, he can only nod, falling into step with the alpha. Winter-battered trees are poised here and there among the washed-out red-bricked houses, and carefully sculpted flakes of snow chaotically waltz through the air. He feels their soft caress against his skin, before they melt and turn into water drops. His skin has taken the rosy shade sired by the cold, but there’s also the heat coming from the alpha by his side contributing to the contrast in his complexion. They walk close to one another, two souls somewhere in North Yorkshire, doting a choir of pastel cold colours. 

“I am not with Isabelle,” Harry says at last as the tip of the River Esk appears in the distance, with the boats gently rocking over its still water. The alpha frowns, glancing briefly at him. “I don’t know why you got this impression in the first place. I only help Isabelle by fetching Jolene every once in a while,” a fond smile takes shape as he talks about the little girl. “I’m a babysitter of some sort, though I do it for free. Isabelle’s been… struggling.”

The sting of guilt is like a needle going through his neck; he looks down, berating himself for his selfishness. He doesn’t even look up when he feels fingers on his wrist, meant to be comforting — in truth, they only leave him confused. Harry sends so many mixed, confusing signals and surely he doesn’t expect for anything to happen between them? Surely Harry doesn’t expect for him to go back with the alpha? Not after everything he’s gone through because of him. With a flick of the wrist, he wrenches himself free from Harry’s grip and thrusts his hands in his coat’s pockets, not allowing himself to acknowledge the flash of hurt striking Harry’s otherwise mellowed-out face.

“I’m glad you’ve been helping her,” he tells Harry sincerely, lips curving. “I’m sorry for assuming. I just— I don’t know. I thought you were going on a date with her tomorrow.”

Harry snorts and quickly covers his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. “Sorry, sorry,” he gushes, cheeks pinking. “It’s just… I’m just taken aback, to be frank. I never expected that.” He frowns in thoughts, and Louis lets him sort his stream of consciousness out, the alpha seemingly battling with himself, though about what he can’t tell.

The frosted sunlight shines over the bridge crossing the river, common blackbirds soaring through the sky. 

“It’s a date alright,” Harry mutters at last, shoulders drooping, defeated. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to admit what he will be doing tomorrow night, and just as he is about to open his mouth to tell Harry that he doesn’t have to tell him anything, the alpha continues, taking a deep breath. “But with my war therapist. Much less fun, if you ask me.”

 _War therapist._ He frowns and gazes at the succulent pillows of clouds in the distance, soaking in the pastel hues of grey and white. Everyday it’s as if he were discovering a new facet of the alpha, a new petal of his sorrow. He walks closer and tentatively takes Harry’s hand in his own, and the feeling he gets as the alpha closes his fingers around his own is undescriptible. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells Harry, honesty dripping from his words. He shakes his head. “God, I’m so sorry. I feel stupid.”

Their hands swing between them, a tender sight to outside eyes; and yet the moment is as tense as it can get. 

“Don’t,” Harry shakes his head. “Don’t blame yourself, alright?”

He huffs. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Harry agrees, tightening his grip. “But I’m glad we talked it out. Communication is key, isn’t it? It’s a lesson I’ve learnt over the years,” his voice goes quieter. “Wish I had done so a bit earlier.”

He blinks away the moisture in his eyes and looks down at his feet, the urge to get on a boat and drive to the middle of the ocean stronger than sanity, and not even Harry’s hand in his own is enough to bring him back to the shore. They reach where the bridge begins, and stop. Harry turns around and moves until they’re facing one another.

“Louis,” Harry begins, eyes flickering between the sun and clear blue eyes.

“Yeah,” he answers, inhaling Harry’s scent as it merges with the fragrance of fish-tainted water, giving it a bitter undertone. It makes him want to bury his nose in the crook of Harry’s neck and drinks in his alpha scent until he’s rolling his eyes in pleasure. Instead, he remains quiet and admires the view alongside Harry.

Years ago, he wanted to come to Whitby with Harry, hoping to start over, to blossom a new life in the quiet sea town, believing it was the change of scenery they needed. Coming there meant buying a house they could afford, maybe begin a family the way they’ve dreamed doing so many times before. But the rug had been pulled from underneath his feet when Harry had voiced his disapproval — and being in love, there wasn’t anything in the world he wouldn’t have done for Harry back in the days, including putting his interests and dreams to the side to prioritise what the alpha wanted. It was toxic, he’s come to admit.

Sometimes, just sometimes, he wonders if drifting apart had been exactly what they needed. 

And as he gazes at Harry, he can’t help but ponder if Harry showing up to Whitby after all these years isn’t a twist of fate in their favours. 

“Will you be there tomorrow?” Harry whispers, blooming hope colouring his cheeks in purple, turning his veins into blue. Louis feels honoured that Harry is trusting him enough to lay himself bare, to break down every last bit of wooden beams separating them from one another. With a small grin, he tenderly looks up at Harry.

“Of course,” he responds, as the sun progresses some more past the horizon line, and the world is lit up in thousands of coloured blotches of emotions and screaming dreams.

  
  


-

  
  


There is a pattern to Harry Styles, he comes to realize after three weeks of being by the alpha’s side, after days of going to sleep with the tentative shudders coming from Harry and waking up to an arm thrown over his waist. And this pattern is a diegesis, an entire world of fiction that he has yet to entirely discover.

There are roads to that world that have been shattered to pieces; he can see it whenever Harry hunches over himself if there are too many people around them — _I don’t know,_ Harry had muttered when he had asked about it, _I’m just scared that if I blink, I’ll find them dead on the ground_ —, can see it whenever Harry glances down at his fake leg in unfiltered hatred and fury, especially whenever he stumbles or does something that reminds him of his predicament from which he can’t escape. These pieces, he thinks, have been lost in the vast, vast ocean, but he believes he can get them back.

He doesn’t know if he is the miracle ointment, if he can help Harry get better; but he’d rather die than not try.

It’s a loop in their life — he goes over at Harry, he sleeps in the alpha’s bed, he leaves in the morning after a hearty breakfast, his omega scent lingering in the crumpled flat. Sometimes Harry shows up at his doorstep, and wordlessly goes about taking care of his pathetic excuse of a garden, to which he doesn’t say anything because it seems to be therapeutic to the alpha (and as if he’d turn away someone willing to mend back his garden — just for the way Niall has been frothing at the mouth at the sight of his well-trimmed small patch of soil, it’s worth it to endure several hours of Harry’s scent, even though it makes him dizzy with want).

The grey sky is barely visible through the lattice of clouds, and birds have been scarce since winter has decided to have a mind of its own and grow along the river bank, patches of ice that, more than once, has threatened to send him straight to the river’s gutter. He waves goodbye at his children, caressing Dove’s hair as she flies past him, thick scarf dragging against the wet ground. Before he can call after her so he can adjust the piece of fabric, Niall bounces behind him and scares him enough for an inhuman shriek to fall from his lips.

“Are you fu— _bloody_ mad?” he shouts, mindful to not curse when he is surrounded by kids, frowning at his friend and crossing his arms over his chest. Niall laughs.

“Have I ever told you that you sound more British than British? _Bluhdy,”_ the blond omega mocks, pinching Louis’ side before pulling them flush together.

“I’m British, you twat, what did you expect?” he huffs, though his lips twitch with the need to smile. 

“Let’s get outta here,” Niall practically begs, dragging him to his classroom to grab his bags. “All these kids are giving me a headache.”

“Be nice,” he warns as he swings his satchel over his shoulder and locks his classroom closed, yawning and quickly hiding it into his coat’s sleeve. Niall notices and raises an eyebrow.

“Tired?” Niall smiles, leaning closer to his ear. “Thought all you did with Styles was visiting sleeping? Or was it just code-red for fucking?”

The implication takes too long to reach his slow brain; but when it does, he gasps, elbowing Niall in the side, glancing around himself in embarrassment. 

“Be quiet, I hate you,” he hisses as they finally step out of the school.

“You love me,” Niall sing-songs, growing serious after a while. “I wanted to discuss something very important with you.”

He doesn’t know why it takes him so long to figure out what it is that Niall wants to discuss, but he attributes it to a long day spent with little kids that have the attention span of a teaspoon. He frowns as he racks his brain for the day and month they currently are, or what he’s done in the last few weeks that might have warranted Niall catching him after school to talk to him. 

When it dawns on him, he sighs. “Really?”

Niall grins. _“Really,”_ he stops, thinks, then adds with a sweet smile. “You should invite Harry.”

 _No,_ his conscience snaps instantly, and he echoes the sentiment, making Niall frown.

“Why?” the blond omega whines. “It’d be fun. Get him a bit out there, you know?”

He shakes his head, knowing fully well a party of twenty or so people isn’t what Harry wants. 

“I said no,” he says firmly, glancing at Niall. “He doesn’t need that, alright? Remember Daniel, and how uncomfortable he was at his own birthday party?”

Niall’s shoulders droop in defeat. “Shame,” he sighs, as they walk along the river and take the path that leads up to Louis’ neighborhood. 

He frowns as his bag lightly taps his head at each step he takes. “I thought you didn’t like him,” he wonders, smiling gently at familiar faces. Niall hums.

“He’s tending to your garden, therefore, he has mine and grandma Orla’s blessing.”

“You are ridiculous,” he sighs, though he can’t help the way he warms up at the thought of Harry working on his garden, beanie keeping his stray curls at bay, hands covered by thick gloves as he pulls out weeds and turns over the frozen soil. More than once, Louis has brought out a warm cup of tea or homemade biscuits, and he can still picture, clear as day, the fond, soft looks the alpha would give him whenever he did so. 

“Hey, hey, wait,” Niall frowns as he pushes the fence open and steps into Louis’ garden that now looks a lot more like one. “Did you ask Styles about Isabelle?”

The name of the latter makes him blink and flush, both from shame at having ever assumed such a thing and also from embarrassment because _Niall had been right._ He can already picture the omega’s smug face as he reveals the answer and can already hear Niall’s downpour of ‘ _I told you so’._ He braces himself for what is about to occur as he twists the front door open.

“They aren’t dating,” he admits, the words muffled as they fly out of the doorway and merge with the howling wind going through oaks, but deafening as some letters jump in the quiet of his house. 

“Well, don’t slap me, but,” Niall drags out while closing the door. “I told you so.”

He sighs loudly and goes about removing the several layers of clothes on him, dropping his bag to the floor by the wall. He hears Niall potter about in the kitchen, and the whistle of the kettle reaches his ears as he glances to the staircase.

“I’ll go take a quick shower, alright?” he calls out, but doesn’t wait for an answer as he bounces upstairs, itching for warm water. Usually, his birthday is an event he looks forward to, especially when his friends throw him a party, which has become a bit of a routine, of an unofficial event etched in the calendar. But he’s spent the previous six years without Harry by his side, and the thought of having the alpha on his birthday day again… he starts to breathe hard as he strips nacked, leaving crumbs of clothes after him, and jumps in the shower.

The first gush of water against his skin is a relief, steamy and nice as it chases away the pecks the cold left on his body. The redness sired by the biting cold becomes a collective flush that the hot water leaves as it trails down his back, over the curve of his arse, gathers at his feet, soaking his toes. He hums and closes his eyes, tilts his chin to his collarbones.

Harry. _Harry Harry Harry, jolly Harry._ He chuckles to himself and thinks that maybe, in the end, he is going insane. He feels completely lost to delirium, and he yearns for the alpha right now, but Harry is somewhere far away, more reachable than if he were back in London or away at war, but still out of Louis’ grasp.

Having Harry at his birthday party would be both a curse and a miracle. 

He makes soap bubbles against his skin, works his digits into his tender flesh, and doesn’t know what to make of the fact that his mind pictures Harry’s fingers instead of his own. _Get a grip, Louis,_ he mentally scolds himself as his guts tickle in interest and blood gushes to his cock. He refuses to jerk off to the thought of his ex-boyfriend, so with reluctant fingers he turns the tap to cold and hisses as he is assaulted at all sides.

He dresses into a light shirt and soft trousers, then slips socks onto his rosy toes. His eyes freeze on the coat, the beige one that Harry had gifted him when they weren’t strangers to one another. With his throat vibrating in barely concealed fear, he lets the tip of his digits caress the soft fabric, and he buries his nose in the collar. Cold, bitter disappointment befalls him as he can only make out his own scent.

“Your tea’s about to go cold,” Niall informs him as he steps in the living room. He blinks, spots his favourite cup on the dining table, and hums while he picks it up. He sips it gently and goes to the chair by the window, sitting down and gazing at his frosted lawn. It’s not a bird’s nest anymore, the grass having been trimmed. Somehow, for the first time in forever, he can’t wait for spring where, maybe, he’ll get to witness the blooming of flowers and weddings of colours.

He breaks the silence. “I’ll ask him,” he whispers, instantly filling his mouth with lukewarm tea.

Niall hums, though not even the wide-brimmed cup is enough to conceal his little knowing grin.

  
  


-

  
  


He watches Harry through sleep-soft eyes, and munches on his bottom lip as the alpha moves around the flat, confident in his movements even though the crutches. He sighs and sinks in the mess of sheets, smiling as he smells their scents written in the fabric. He wouldn’t mind waking up that way for the rest of his life, and as soon as the thought comes up, he slaps it back into a shiny black box and hastily glances up at the white ceiling.

“I’ve got some blueberries,” Harry says, glancing over his shoulder. “Would you like some with your pancakes?”

He hums and decides to sit up, puffing his pillow against the headboard and leaning back. His racing heart has slowed down by then, because although his thoughts are drawn to danger, deep down he knows he is strong enough to hold himself back. He doesn’t want to come back to an alpha that probably hasn’t thought about him even once in the last few years, when he spent every second of it with the nagging memory of the alpha.

“Yes, please,” he mutters tenderly, then others words spring up in his mind. _Will you come to my birthday party?_ But they don’t come out, not even when Harry brings over his plate, carefully decorated with four fluffy pancakes, drizzles of maple sirup and sweet purple marbles. He eagerly digs in, chewing happily. Harry watches him with soft eyes that he refuses to read too much into, and the mattress lowers as Harry sits down, his own plate in his hand.

They eat in silence for a while, until Harry frowns.

“Sometimes none of this feels real,” the alpha at last says, so low that Louis has to lean closer to the alpha. “I just— I still can’t quite believe we’re here, you know? Who would have thought?”

He gulps. “Yeah,” he breathes out. “Who would?”

 _Not me, that’s for sure._ He doesn’t say those words, though, even if they’re drenched in a serum of truth. 

“Harry?” he puts the plate down on his lap, afraid he might make it topple over and turn the sheets into a sticky mess. The alpha hums. _Will you come to my birthday party?_ Instead, the letters that spill out of his mouth are stubborn. “What are we?” he demands, frowning at the queer question. He isn’t all that surprised when Harry’s head turns to him, face unreadable.

“What do you think we are?” the alpha wonders back, as if he didn’t dare voice aloud an answer that might anger the omega. He sighs and lets his blue eyes glare at the wall in front of him — what a stupid question! 

“I have no idea,” he finally settles on saying, remembering that honesty being the key to everything. He shivers as Harry comes closer and puts his arm around the omega, unabashedly ducking down to nose at the skin behind Louis’ ear. He moans slightly as Louis’ scent washes over him, and relaxes instantly. The kiss he drops there as he leans back is enough to make goosebumps rack through louis’ body. 

“Right,” he mutters shakily, fingers yearning to reach up to feel the skin where Harry’s wet lips had touched. “Harry?” he asks again, though this time he lets a tiny smile bless his face, and Harry chuckles.

“What, Louis?” Harry practically swallows down an entire pancake, chewing unashamedly, making Louis scrunch his nose up in fondness. 

“Feel free to refuse,” he tells the alpha, secretly hoping the answer won’t be _no._ “But Niall is throwing a little party for my birthday, as is his wont, and I was wondering whether you’d come?”

Silence, during which he can hear every tremor his heart undergoes. He can tell Harry is struggling slightly, because his fear of big crowds is a lingering demon that, no matter how much holy water is used, won’t go away. He continues eating, focusing on chewing instead of reading too much into the alpha’s reaction. If Harry accepts, not only will it be a huge step forward for the alpha, who has only shown up to school to fetch Jolene, but it will also catch him completely off guard.

Naturally, that’s what Harry does — surprise him, that’s it. It seems the alpha has been doing just that since they first saw each other.

“I’ll come,” Harry reassures him, fork stealing a pancake right off Louis’ plate, cheeky smile making his dimples pop out.

And not for the first time, Louis finds himself wanting to shower love-infused kisses in those two little abysses of flesh.

  
  


-

  
  


A morning full of blossoming rays of sunshine greet him on the day he is meant to be a year older. He isn’t exactly ecstatic about it; twenty-seven years old seems like an awful lot, when taking into account the life-span of a human being. When he stands up and glances out of the window and into the snowy landscape, he’s almost afraid that, if he were to look into a mirror, he’d find pristine white strands weaved into his hair. He’s always been a bit dramatic on his birthday, but somehow, lately, it’s been a lot worse. In fact, turning older has been a tiring concept ever since he left Harry in their Londonian cramped flat.

Ageing with someone by his side had been easier to grasp, more comforting. But since he is all alone face to the natural brook of time as it gushes down and takes him with it, the concept has taken a bittersweet melancholy. He sighs and goes about freshening up, avoiding the reflective surface hung onto the wall, not quite ready to meet his new self.

Despite the dark thoughts, he looks forward to the party, because Niall and party equal booze and cake: two things he holds rather close to his heart. Getting drunk with his friends and sleeping on a carpet smelling like baking soda and dust don’t sound appealing, but the adrenaline he feels in that moment is something he’s been craving. 

Morning is a flutter of cups of tea and books, as well as the occasional glances out of the window and into a garden that’s empty of Harry (and an ache blossoms in his lower belly at the poor sight). But then noon comes, and he finds himself in the kitchen, chopping carrots and whisking together a light salad, deciding to keep it light, knowing tonight he’ll be stuffing his face with frosting and overly sweet, caloric beers. He eats as snowflakes litter the ground, a bit like the toasted bread crumbs he’s carelessly thrown over the green leaves.

Noon fades into evening, the grey sky turns into pitch black, starless and full-of-clouds. He hurries to his bedroom, both excited and frightened — he’s twenty-seven today, and the last time he’s spent a birthday with Harry Styles, he’s been twenty years old. He remembers the candles’ flames flickering in the dark, the glimmer they would cast over their faces as he leant closer and blew them out, just after Harry would mutter, _make a wish!_

After they broke up, he stopped wishing for anything whenever he blew the candles out, simply because the last time he did it, no one had been kind enough to make the wish come true. He wonders if maybe, tonight, things will change - if words will be silently muttered as he extinguishes lights of hope and joy. He is shaking slightly as he dresses up in a midnight blue shirt and coffee brown trousers. Dark boots cover his feet, and before stepping out of the bedroom, he makes a split decision as he grabs the beige coat and throws it over him.

 _Harry isn’t an enemy,_ his conscience shouts from the rooftop of the building his feelings have built up as he locks his door. He doesn’t have to be so nervous about the coat as he begins walking; it’s his, regardless of who gave it to him. 

Niall’s house is ageless; the garden, despite the cold, has kept most of its splendor. Rows of ornamental cabbage and kale fight against the snow, their green and dark pink colours standing up like a drop of blood against the plain white ground while winter aconites, with their buttercup-like blooms and frilly foliage, peek through the snow like tiny little planet of yellow water. He is careful as he pushes open the fence and walks the path up to Niall’s porch, stubbornly ignoring the rubber balloons tied to the wooden beams all around the house. He doesn’t like them and knows they will pop in the middle of the night and scare the living hell out of them, but Niall either never learns from his mistakes or simply doesn’t care.

The latter option sounds more probable. 

The door swings open as he presses his forefinger against the bell, and a rosy-cheeked, beaming blond omega greets him.

“Lou!” Niall cheers, urging him inside, walking over his feet and making Louis puffs out a laugh.

“Already drunk?” he raises an eyebrow, helping Niall get to the busy living room and bracing himself for the waves of _Happy birthday, Louis!_

Niall bursts out laughing as he falls backwards onto one of the settees, and he stands awkwardly in the doorway as he is swept into handshakes and hugs. He isn’t comfortable being touched so much, or kissed so much, but he nods and smiles and accepts being pinched by Mrs. Jessica.

“You big boy,” she coos, cradling his face and peering at him from above her square glasses. “You pretty, stunning omega. It’s about time you got married.”

He freezes, a smile intacs on his face, and gently steps away. 

“Thank you,” he politely says. “But I haven’t quite found the right person.”

As he glances to the side, yearning to catch the brightness of the day and maybe calms himself in the process, he finds green eyes staring straight at him.

“Excuse me,” he pats Mrs.Jessica’s hand and begins walking before she can say anything.

Harry is like a flower in a field in the midst of spring, but stands out because it hasn’t yet bloomed. The alpha stands taller than most of the people here, but he might as well be invisible as he leans against the wall by the window, dressed in dark tones, the curtains casting shadows over the better half of his face.

“Hi,” he breathes out as he reaches Harry, licking his bottom lip unconsciously, though he notices when the alpha’s eyes follow the movement. His inner self is smirking, satisfied, but his face doesn’t shift at all, doesn’t betray him.

“Hi,” Harry grins, quickly glancing around. “This isn’t half as bad as I thought it would be.”

He chuckles and glances over his shoulder, taking in the tables filled with sweets and petit-fours, the rows of flutes of champagne and the excessive amount of rubber balloons. 

“I guess,” he shrugs, quickly averting his eyes when Joceline appears. _God, no,_ he doesn’t need to idle conversations right now. “I recommend the cheese petit-four,” he adds while creeping closer to the alpha. Harry hums and looks him up and down.

“Nice coat,” he whispers, hands going to said coat, caressing the collar. Louis can feel the heat coming from Harry’s fingers as they graze his skin, and he silently gulps, preventing himself from leaning into the touch with every fiber of his being.

“Thanks,” he raises an eyebrow. “It’s my favourite.”

Before Harry can answer, a hand closes around his bicep, and Joceline’s sickeningly sweet fragrance pollutes the air.

“Sorry to bother,” she smiles, eyes appreciatively lingering on the alpha. “But I’m going to steal Louis.” 

He opens his mouth to ask her what she wants from him, but before a word can spill from his lips, she drags him away from the alpha and closer to a circle of their friends — or, at least, closer to people he’s gotten acquainted with. He huffs and plasters a fake smile onto his face as Rachel lights up and takes his hand.

“The star of the night!” she calls out, drawing most people’s attention to him. He haunches over, uncomfortable as dozens of eyes fall upon him. “Let’s wish our Lou a happy birthday!”

He wants to protest, but he knows it’d be fruitless. It’s his birthday night, and six years have gone by, and not once had he escaped the loud, cheeky choir of Harry Birthday songs. Niall turns off the light and people begin to clap; and the first notes of _happy birthday to you_ rise through the gloom while, in the distance, the sun progresses further down the horizon line, the sky takes the shade of dilated pupils and owls begin to peek out of tree trunks, manifesting their presence through hooting. He flushes when Niall brings out the cake, candles’ flames (twenty-seven of them, what the fuck Niall?) flickering as the air distorts their shapes. 

“Make a wish,” Niall winks, holding out the cake until the glow of the candles bright out his facial features, and when he glances up and slightly to the left, he finds Harry’s eyes on him, unwavering and soft. 

_I’ve stopped making wishes,_ he thinks as his eyes hover over the cake, the heat coming from the candles tickling his thin lips. _I can do an exception, I guess._ He closes his eyes, thinks about his wish, and blows onto the candles, moving his face around to put out every single sparkle of orange, yellow, red and midnight blue. He blows harder over stubborn candles, and grins when everybody cheers. 

_I wish for a light at the end of the tunnel._

  
  


-

  
  


“And although the different places to which our hearts belong, we gaze at the same sky,” Harry whispers as he comes to a stop by his side, half-empty glass of beer in hand. Louis doesn’t look away from the stars that can be seen where the clouds break in two.

“Never heard that one before,” he tilts his head. “Who is the author?”

Harry’s hand closes around his own, and something slides between his fingers.

“Me,” he answers, letting go.

Louis glances down as he brings his hand up, palm up, and in there he finds a little square box, made of velvet. It’s quaint except for his name which has been jutted down across the side of the box. 

“Happy birthday,” the alpha says while taking a sip of the golden liquid.

“You didn’t have to,” he stutters, blinking the alcohol away from his eyes. 

“I know,” Harry responds, before sitting cross-legged in the grass, patting the empty spot by his side. Louis raises an eyebrow before ungracefully dropping to his knees, the cold turning his exhales into steam of white. The only source of warmth he is provided with comes from Harry’s body as the alpha shifts around until he is sitting behind Louis, legs bent on either side of the omega. He flushes and tentatively leans back against Harry’s firm chest, digits twirling the little bow, eyes taking it in curiously.

It’s ironic, how entranced by that box which is no bigger than his palm when he’s got a pile of presents waiting for him by the door. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that the simple fact that it comes from Harry renders it special. 

“What is it?” he asks, tilting his head up until he can look into Harry’s eyes.The alpha smiles, and the sad curve to his lips sire nervousness in his lower belly.

“Open it,” Harry liquor-infused breath tickles his nostrils, and with trembling fingers, he carefully removes the lead.

His hand flies to his mouth as he chokes back down a sob.

Because there, laying in a black little cushion, is the necklace Harry gifted him after four months of being together; the necklace he left behind when he left their flat all those years ago, when war tore them apart.

“Oh god,” he croaks out, chest heaving as tears spill out of his heavy eyelids. _“Oh god, oh god, oh god.”_

Harry’s arms pull him further against the alpha’s chest, and he goes willingly, soaking, with his tears, Harry’s coat, his ironed shirt, wetting his skin. He delicately picks up the necklace, the box falling onto his lap. He can feel the damp grass underneath his thighs, his arse, and in any other situation it would have been annoying to be seating on something water-clogged — but right now, he can’t make sense of anything besides the alpha behind him, and the necklace he thought he had lost forever in his hand.

“Where? How?” he wonders, glancing back at the alpha, finding Harry’s eyes carefully looking at him.

“I kept it on me,” Harry admits, putting his glass down by his hip and bringing his hands up to cup Louis’; together, they hold a totem of the past they shared. Louis knew that if he were to open the rectangle-shaped necklace, he’d find a picture of them. Back in the days, it was all they could afford: a thumb-big picture of them, put together in a piece of jewellery. When Harry had first tied the necklace around his neck, he’d felt as if nothing would ever come between them.

Wrong. He was _wrong._

He frowns. “I thought I was a burden,” he whispers, blinking the sleep, the pain, the alcohol away, sagging against Harry. 

The steady beating of Harry’s heart is a melody only he can hear, and a while ago, each sound it produced was a word that he could understand, but right now, in Niall’s garden, surrounded by the cold and glared at by the pitch black sky, he finds that he can’t make sense of anything. Confusion is a deadly mist, and he’s stumbled head first into it.

Harry puts two fingers underneath his chin and tilts his head up, then to the side, in a way that would be perfect for a kiss. The alpha’s face is all anger and surprise as green eyes gaze at him.

“You were never a burden, and I don’t know why you ever got that impression.”

There’s a snake hissing in the back of his head, and its long scaled body dodges his blood cells and ignites a fire in his soul. He feels angry, in such a way that might be out of proportion, but justified by the beer and champagne swirling in his blood. He jerks his head out of Harry’s grip, and fixes the alpha with a dark glare of his own.

“You’re an hypocrite,” he spits, eyelashes getting stuck to one another as he blinks. “You gave up on us when it began because I was a burden to you. Because our love was a weight on your shoulders that you couldn’t carry.”

He sits up and instantly misses the warmth Harry’s body provided, but he doesn’t let that deter him as he gets out of the alpha’s arms and to safer territory — who knows what kind of poison is secreted by the alpha's body, and what kind of effect it’s going to have on him.

Harry’s big fingers close around his wrist, holding him in place, burning his skin. He tugs but Harry won’t let go, and he finds strength in the necklace that’s still in his hand, trapped between his fingers.

Harry sounds broken as he speaks up. “I don’t know how you can even think of such a thing. Louis, you’re my life, my soul, you’ve always been my fucking soulmate, and if I watched you leave all those years ago, it was only to protect you.”

He shakes his head and openly begins to cry again, fat dews of salty water sliding down his cheeks. He muffles his sobs with the back of his hand. Harry continues speaking, his scent unconsciously coming out stronger, his nostrils flaring in anger and panic — as if he never expected for the omega to tell him such a thing.

“Picture this,” Harry gulps, pulling Louis to his chest, cradling the back of the omega’s head so tenderly that one would never guess the storm brewing in the alpha’s chest. “If we hadn’t broken up, and I would have died on the battlefield, do you know what would have happened? Best scenario, they would have found my body, would have contacted you and Mother asking whether they should burn my dead corpse or give it over for burial. And you’d maybe receive the latest letter I’d have written to you, when I thought I wouldn’t die, and you’d also get a formal letter saying Harry Styles is dead — and tell me, what would you have done? When we broke up, I went off to war without fear of leaving my omega alone, and you went off with your life without fear of losing your alpha. I never ever left you because I considered you a burden; I allowed us to drift apart because then the pain became at least bearable.”

He can’t breathe; he pushes Harry off him and shakily stands up, keeping his fist close to his chest, keeping an artefact of their past close to his heart.

“Stop talking,” he sniffs, wiping the tears away though they keep coming back. “Stop it. I’m drunk, I’m tired, I want to go home.”

Harry stands up too, tall, big body blocking the frosted moonlight from caressing his skin. The alpha doesn’t say anything as he cries, though he can see the clenched jaw, the tense shoulders, and feel cold, cold fingers spread across the small of his back, stirring him away from Niall’s house, where warm light shines through the windows, and closer to the gloom of the streets. He struggles walking straight, both from liquid sloshing up his consciousness and the onslaught of feelings threatening to choke him to death. He lets Harry be there, by his side — allows the alpha be a compass in a night full of demons. He draws his coat closer to his body.

“Louis,” Harry breathes out, slowly wrapping his arm around the smaller body.

He leans into the alpha’s body, eyes flickering shut before stubbornly snapping open.

“Shut up,” he whines, and Harry doesn’t say anything else until they arrive at his house, though once or twice, when he loses self-control and glances at the alpha, he finds a small grin on his face.

He doesn’t say goodbye as he pushes open the door.

“You can’t fight your feelings, Louis!” Harry shouts after him, his voice deafening in the quiet of the night.

He snaps his door shut.

  
  


-

  
  


“I was rude, Niall,” he mutters, frowning at his reflection in the window glass, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are particularly drawn to the necklace tied around his neck. He hasn’t opened it since he got it back, and he isn’t sure his sanity is strong enough to do so.

From behind him, laying across the couch, head propped up on his hand, crackles Niall. 

“He’s in love with you,” the blond omega shakes his head. “You should stop reading into it and go for it. Never seen your garden so neat before. Ten out of ten, definitely recommend.”

“Fuck off,” he sighs, bringing his cup of tea to his lips, softening as he focuses on the patch of soil in front of his house. The lawn is trimmed, and flowers have begun peeking out from the ground, shy yet thriving with life. He wonders if he could, one day, find it in himself to shed his rotten layer of feelings for a new one.

He hears footsteps echoing behind him, then Niall comes to a stop by his side.

“No, but seriously,” the blond omega says, leaning his head on Louis’ shoulder. “Won’t you consider starting a new life with him? I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and I swear to God, if anyone ever looks at me that way I’m marrying them straight away.”

He flushes and shrugs, trying not to think too much into the way Harry looks, talks, acts with him. There might be sparks of truth in what Niall is saying, because it feels a lot as if Harry sees him as more than a friend or the omega who has been helping him deal with his nightmares, but he is scared. 

He’s scared that Harry’s love for him is ephemeral, unsteady on its feet, ready to go crumbling to the ground. He has never stopped loving Harry, but he can’t say the same about the alpha, and he isn’t ready for another heartbreak.

“It’s whatever,” he says, whirling around and going to the kitchen where he rinses their brown-stained cups. Niall follows him like a lost puppy, leaning against the counter, eyes zooming in on the necklace. He raises an eyebrow.

“This isn’t whatever, though.”

He glances down at the necklace, ignoring the way his stomach tightens in knots, and shrugs. 

“As I said, it’s whatever,” he repeats, taking the towel to dry his hands. When he talks again, his voice has gone quiet. “I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.”

Niall purses his lips, but doesn’t say anything.

  
  


-

  
  
  


_“But our love it was stronger by far than the love_   
_Of those who were older than we—_   
_Of many far wiser than we—_   
_And neither the angels in Heaven above_   
_Nor the demons down under the sea_   
_Can ever dissever my soul from the soul_   
_Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;_

  
_For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams_   
_Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;_   
_And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes_   
_Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;_   
_And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side_   
_Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,_   
_In her sepulchre there by the sea—_   
_In her tomb by the sounding sea.”_

  
  


Vanilla turns the air into saccharose, and he stands, frozen, by the window. The rudimentary sunrise casts warm glows over Whitby at an hour that, had roosters been lurking in the shadows, would have been noisy with the sweeping rifles of the river and the crows of the animals. He gulps and glances at the grandfather o’clock on the wall — and it confirms that it’s way too early for Harry to be working on his garden, _again,_ when it isn’t even necessary anymore. He’s never asked for flowers to be sowed, only for the overgrown weed to be pulled out and the grass trimmed so that he can see where he is stepping. Although he appreciates, more than he probably should, the sight of the alpha’s tall frame moving around, tending to his garden and, in a way, taking care of him, he doesn’t fancy seeing Harry straining himself when he has to deal with a fake leg.

He sighs and goes to the kitchen, putting the kettle on.

His hand has taken to fondling with the necklace, probably itching to open it up and gaze at the sweet memory it encompasses. But succumbing to temptation will mean opening up new scars, and his heart has suffered enough.

With two steaming cups of tea, he struggles opening the front door; but he succeeds, and stands in the doorway, bracing himself.

Talking to Harry turns out a lot more difficult when he’s aware that the alpha has feelings for him. He isn’t entirely sure of what to do with that piece of information. It’s a bit like being faced with a bug and not knowing what to do — scream, run, grab the nearest thing to hurl at it. Confliction pollutes his mind, renders him useless in a way he absolutely loathes. As he exhales, white kisses spill from his lips, twirl in the air, and gathering his pluck, he steps down the porch.

“You should be sleeping,” he says as he comes to a stop by Harry’s side, not quite looking at the alpha and deciding to focus his attention on Harry’s soil-dirty gloves. Harry blinks and straightens up, waiting a second too long — probably not expecting for the omega to come out to talk to him — before taking the cup.

“You shouldn’t come out dressed so lightly,” is what comes out of the alpha’s mouth, eyes widening as he realizes the words he’s first muttered to Louis. “Sorry, shit, I mean— hi!”

He clears his throat and takes a large gulp of tea, wincing as the hot liquid burns his tongue. Despite himself, Louis can’t help the fond smile breaking through his expressionless face; part of him, especially his omega, purrs at the fact that the alpha cares about him, seeks his comfort and yearns to protect him. The cold air slips underneath his bluebell cardigan, and he shivers.

“It’s alright,” he says at last, crossing one arm over his chest and taking a sip of tea, not even blinking — between Harry and he, he’s always been the one to bear hot water, be it when drinking tea, or when taking a shower. “It is cold,” he nods. “Should have worn something thicker.”

Before he can register what’s happening, Harry is shrugging off his coat, the action rendered more difficult as he is holding a cup, and drapes it over Louis’ shoulders. The omega flushes.

“Don’t,” he frowns, both enjoying the added weight, the newly found warmth, and the onslaught of alpha scent. “You need it, too. I can always go back inside to fetch a coat.”

Harry holds a hand up. “I don’t need it, darling,” he blows over his cup. “I wear it not to look like a fool going around in a shirt.”

He scoffs and draws Harry’s coat closer around himself. “Arrogant,” he teases, hiding his smile behind his cup. 

“As always,” Harry shakes his head, grinning, and they watch the sun go up and the birds soar by.

They talk as if nothing ever happened between them, as if years haven’t gone by without them seeing each other. The familiarity of the moment leaves him breathless and scared, unable to decide whether what he is experiencing right now is positive or a deadly twist of life. 

He’s afraid that Harry has re-fallen in love with him (if such a thing is even possible) when he hasn’t ever stopped loving the alpha in the first place. And isn’t such a love breakable? The possibility of Harry being able to stop loving him is unbearable, and it’s for that reason that he doesn’t think he’ll ever consider having Harry as his alpha again.

Fingers shaking, he turns around.

“You’re welcome to stay for lunch,” he breathes out, Harry humming as he takes several steps closer to his home — his nest, his comfort, his safe haven that he will let Harry breach once again.

Before he can get too far away, Harry speaks.

“Will you open it?” the alpha asks, voice low yet heavy with the implication behind the words.

He gulps and stares down into the empty cup of tea, tries to find sense in the leaves and tea stains. “Maybe,” he answers, feeling the shift in the air as much as a blow to the head.

He hastily opens the door and lets it click shut behind him, and he doesn’t let himself think too much into it, into anything, really, as he grabs the necklace.

He opens it.

  
  


_“I told you not to get me anything,” he laughs, squeezing his eyes shut. Harry’s hands are on them, making sure he doesn’t peek, though at one point they disappear, leaving their warmth as evidence of where they’ve rested._

_Something cool caresses his naked skin, and he shivers despite Harry’s body heat behind him._

_“Open your eyes,” the alpha whispers in his ear, lips pressing against its curve. He smiles and blinks his eyelids open, glancing over his shoulder at Harry, who grins._

_“Look down, darling,” Harry says, leaning forward to press a kiss against his lips. When they detach, he does just that, and finds that a necklace has been tied around his neck. His fingers caress it, and he brings up the square-shaped pendant, biting his lip as he drinks in the intricate carvings. Flowers and birds and stars come together to offer a nice reminder of spring, his favourite season._

_“I love it,” he smiles, thumb going back and forth over the textured surface. “Thank you, Haz.”_

_“Not so fast,” Harry raises an eyebrow, big hands going up to cradle his smaller one. “Open it!”_

_“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, though the sounds fade away as he clicks the pendant open, and finds staring back at him, two pictures. On the right, his own face, looking to the left and on the left, a picture of Harry, looking to the right. Despite the picture having been cut in two, it’s obvious they’re looking at one another._

_And he can’t help but think that it’s a nice representation of their love, of its strength; that despite the ordeals and the walls being built between them, they will always find a crack through which to look. A thread connects them, body and soul, and no scissors or knives will ever be sharp enough to cut it in two._

  
  


He sinks to the ground, pulls his knees to his chest, and gazes, empty eyes, at the necklace.

How foolish he has been!

  
  
  


-

  
  


_“When I have fears that I may cease to be_   
_Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,_   
_Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,_   
_Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;_   
_When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,_   
_Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,_   
_And think that I may never live to trace_   
_Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;_   
_And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,_   
_That I shall never look upon thee more,_   
_Never have relish in the faery power_   
_Of unreflecting love — then on the shore_   
_Of the wide world I stand alone, and think_   
_Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.”_

He yawns and stretches, humming as his sore muscles relax after a good night. He glances to the side and frowns as he finds the spot empty.

“Harry?” he calls out, sitting up when he gets no answer. A quick look at the clock has him known it’s seven in the morning, and one glance at the bedside table and he finds a tiny piece of paper. He takes it and holds it to his face.

**_Went to get breakfast, I’ll be back!_ **

His shoulders drop in relief and he stands up, going to the bathroom to freshen up. He takes a minute to look at himself and finds healthy blue eyes staring back at him, rosy cheeks bitten by the cold, tee-shirt wrinkled from having Harry’s arm around his waist. He sighs and goes back to the empty room, glancing around and noticing the little scattered pieces of existence staining Harry’s place.

His clothes in the closet; his dirty cup of tea next to Harry’s; his own novels, worn out from being read over and over again, on top of Harry’s which are dirty from war. 

He goes to the bed and begins making it, grabbing the blanket and going to the window to shake the particles off. He hums to himself as he moves to the pillows, their mixed scents wafting through the air, but he stops as he finds a brown leather-bound notebook. He blinks and lets Harry’s pillow fall back on the bed, along with his body, and his eyes refuse to look away from the faded-out doodles. He shouldn’t. This is Harry’s and he isn’t to touch what isn’t his own.

But curiosity is a wicked thing, and before he can stop himself, his fingers close around the rough leather. He delicately puts the notebook down on his lap and lets his eyes wander all over its cover, reading what’s scrawled across the surface with his heart hammering in his chest.

_"Your scent lingering on my pillow…_   
_oh Honey,_   
_if only you knew that_   
_the moment I dread most every time you leave…_   
_Is when it fades."_

He flushes when he notices his name written several times across the cover, in cursive, in script, angrily, gently, boldly, shyly… 

_“Blue like the sea,_   
_icy and empty as they gaze at me.”_

His trembling fingers go up to his eyes, feeling the long strands of hair making up his eyelashes.

_“A copy of the past that haunts my dreams_   
_A moment that I cherish but floods me like a stream_   
_of water and sorrow and pain and yearning.”_

He thinks back to when they met in front of _Pick-A-Book._

_“What kind of paranoia inhabits your soul?_   
_It cuts me in half and delivers me whole_   
_on a silver plate of thorns and barbed wire.”_

He can’t breathe; he’s a fish taken out of water, convulsing and gasping for air. Harry’s words are a knife that gently drags down his chest and makes blood pours out of the wound. But there’s also the anger which he can feel bubbling within him. How can Harry refer to his doubts as paranoia? How can the alpha trick himself into thinking he genuinely loves him?

Harry left him once and didn’t bat an eyelash - doing that a second time won’t be a problem. 

And if there’s one thing he wants to avoid at all costs, it’s getting his heart broken even more.

He doesn’t notice the door knob creaks, or pays any mind to the door opening; he’s numb and stuck at the bottom of a pitch black well and has no means to get out.

Harry stands in the doorway, grocery bags in his hands, and eyes focused on him. As he closes the door, he freezes when he finds his notebook on the omega’s lap.

“Louis,” Harry says, voice not revealing how he’s feeling, face blank. “I’ve brought breakfast.”

The alpha goes to the kitchen and puts the bags on the counter; they bang and echo around the flat.

“Also,” he continues, calm, too calm. “Please, put that notebook away.”

He should do as he’s told. He doesn’t think he’s invaded Harry’s privacy as he hasn’t opened the notebook, but he knows he shouldn’t have stumbled upon it in the first place; he can see it in the way Harry’s shoulders tense up, in the way his jaw is clenched and movements brisk as he unloads the bags.

He should pretend to not have seen anything.

But he can’t.

So he wonders.

“Why?” he asks, fingers tightening around the notebook, unable to let go. Something ugly strikes Harry’s face as the alpha glances at him, cheeks flushed in what he assumes to be embarrassment.

“This is private,” Harry grits out, creeping closer to him, fists clenched by his sides; but Louis isn’t afraid. He looks at the alpha in mock-calmness, when in truth, he’s still disturbed by what he’s discovered.

Poetry is a tool of the heart, and Harry knows how to use it.

“It concerns me,” he bites his lip, standing up and waving the notebook in front of the alpha. “I haven’t opened it, Harry, but from the few words I’ve read I can guess where you stand. And I don’t think it’s fair.”

The alpha’s nostrils flare, green eyes boring into the omega’s eyes with a kind of despair that is both alien and familiar.

“So now you are invalidating how I’m feeling,” Harry scoffs, shaking his head as he takes off his coat and throws it on the bed.

“Not invalidating,” he implores for Harry to understand through his eyes. “I don’t want you to believe that you love me when what you’re feeling isn’t even love. How can it be? One day that feeling you got upon meeting me again will fade away, because deep down you’ve never cared for me as much as I do for you.”

He jumps as Harry stumbles, knocking the coffee table several meters away. The alpha winces and shakes his head.

“You must be bullshitting me,” he laughs dryly. “No, really, are you even hearing yourself?”

He is calm as he opens Harry’s closet and goes about dressing up. 

“I am,” he answers, pulling his tank top over his head and buttoning up a midnight blue shirt. “And you will realize that I am right, sooner than later.”

He picks up his bag, noticing in stupor the way his fingers shake.

“What are you doing?” Harry snaps, following him to the door. “I’m about to do breakfast.”

A lump forms in his throat. “I can’t do this,” he brokenly whispers, opening the front door and stepping outside.

The air is tense and as sharp as a butcher knife, and the weapon is held to his throat, ready to spill his blood. He wants to scream until his voice gives out, hurl something at someone until the anger in his heart is reduced to naught, cry until he becomes blind.

Harry’s voice is loud as it ricochets against the corridor’s walls. “You left me!” the alpha screams, and through those three words only he can hear the pain — but what pain does the alpha feel? How deep has the illusion of love dug its way?

He stops at the staircase, and glances back, eyes shining with tears.

“And you didn’t hold me back,” he chokes out, and as he goes down the steps, the first tears fall.

He isn’t surprised when snow melts against his skin as he steps out of the building, and isn’t surprised when Harry doesn’t try to stop him. 

  
  


-

  
  


_There’s a key to my heart,_   
_and it has fallen into your cupped hands._

  
  


-

  
  


His sheets are a messy nest around himself, and he clenches the fabric between his fingers as he glances out the window. The frosted sunlight caresses the soft skin of his face, and he closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the bright weather which, if one were to look deeper they would realize just how much it contradicts how he is feeling.

He only wakes up from his daydream when the doorbell rings, and groaning, he drags his body out of bed. His foot hits something hard, and glancing down he sees it’s an empty, ombré-coloured bottle of whiskey. No wonder he’s got an unbearable headache, his knees are weak, and when he glances in the mirror he finds dark circles and eyes that shine red from hours of crying.

“You’re fine,” he mutters, putting on a cardigan, naked leg exposed to the chilly air. “You’re _fine,”_ he repeats though with a lot less convictions.

He stumbles down the stairs and goes to the door, hardly thinking about his inappropriate attire as he throws the wooden door open and breathes in the fresh, cold air.

No one’s at the door.

He frowns and leans forward, looking left and right for a lingering memory of his visitor; all he gets is a sprinkle of Harry’s scent.

When he glances down, he finds out the reason. Haunted, aching, he drops to his knees and grabs, fingers shaking, a stack of letters tied by a string of twine thread. Although his blurry vision and his need to puke his guts out, he manages to read the little piece of paper that has been recently, judged by its cleanliness and fresh ink, slipped underneath the thread.

_If my spoken words can’t suffice, then I hope my scrawl will be enough for you to understand that I have never stopped loving you._

He crawls backwards and snaps the door shut, chest heaving as he stares at the pile of soil-tainted, blood-stained letters. He can feel the kisses the war left onto those artefacts of the past, those clues of Harry’s past that he has yet to understand why they’ve ended up on his porch. Still, he caresses the first folded letter and carefully slides it out.

And spreading it flat across the floor, he begins reading.


	2. Chapter 2

_December 24, .39;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_This is the first time I have dared writing your name. Somehow, when it had been nothing more than a memory itching the back of my eyelids, it had been bearable to deal with the fact that you are somewhere on this world, just not by my side._

_Today is December 24th, and you are turning twenty-one. That’s the official event of the day, besides Christmas period and all that, though you know between the two it’s the former I care a wit about._

_Unofficially, it’s been nine months since you’ve ceased being mine._

_I miss you a lot, is the truth. Everyday I regret watching you walk out of the door of our pathetic excuse of a flat, and everyday I wish I hadn’t let you slip through my fingers. But now I am away, my body aches from the ordeals it’s gone through, and maybe it is my punishment for failing as an alpha, as a mate; because your kisses and your touches would have soothed the pain._

_This letter will never reach you._

_Still, it’s a relief to write it out._

_Sincerely,_   
_Harry._

  
  


-

  
  


_January 15, .40;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_Writing to you before that has been nearly impossible; death is a teasing little cunt and it won’t give me a second of peace._

_War, it’s horrible. The things I’ve seen haunt me day and night, and thinking about you is the only thing keeping me sane._

_My comrade, Joseph, has been shot in the leg — we are currently hiding in an abandoned building somewhere in Germany… the name I can’t quite remember, my ears are still ringing from the bomb._

_My fingers are shaking, I’m not sure it’s possible to read this._

_Writing helps me, and writing to the memory of you helps me even more._

_I have your necklace. I forgot to mention the last time I wrote to you; but I do, and I look at it as much as I possibly can, because the sight of us fills me with anger. Anger at myself for having been foolish enough to break up the best thing that had ever happened to me._

_I love you, Louis._   
_And I'm sorry._

  
  


-

  
  


_April 12, .40;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_It has come to my attention that I never post those letters. They are more of a journal than anything else, but instead of writing to a certain Jesus Christ, or, I don’t know, someone named Kelly, I’m writing to you._

_I hope you don’t mind. This is just formality; pretending that you are even thinking about me, the alpha who let you down._

_I’m parched. With war comes buckets of whiskey and beer to numb the pain (the only medicine we are truly provided with — liquor strong enough to knock a bull out). I actually just want clean water to drink._

_And maybe also a taste of your lips, but that’s forbidden territory, so I won’t go there. Might get burnt if I do; and I have enough scars and scratches to last me a lifetime._

_I love you, Louis._

_I miss you_

_The bright blue sky is comforting, it makes me think of your eyes._

  
  


-

  
  


_May 14, .40;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_I got shot._

_I love yo—_ {blood stain}

_I miss you,_

_I think I’m_ {blood stain}

  
  


-

  
  


_July 19, .40;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_I am not dying._

_Somehow, I’ve started healing from the German-bullet. It still stings like hell, but at least I’m looking up at the clear sky instead of soaked soil._

_I love you I love you I love you,_

_The need to tell you in person has turned into an uncomfortable itch._

_I’ve carved your name out in the trenches, in the thick damp mud; some of the alphas have whistled, saying I’ve got myself an omega back home. Saying that I’m a lucky son of a bitch and I better stay alive for you._

_If only they knew how much you hate me (assuming that you do — if I were you, I would)._

_I love you, Louis_

_I miss you._

  
  


-

  
  


_August 2, .40;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_It gets harder and harder to find time to write. I am busy trying to stay alive! How fucking ironic. I wish I were back months ago and all I had to care about was our bills and your bloody cold toes digging into my calves in the dead of the night._

_Talking about dead, I lost two friends today: Mackenzie and Ryker. Do you know how we met? They joked about the boss’ knot being short enough to be a toothpick. Or a thorn in a Frenchie’s foot._

_They’re dead, anyhow. Their bodies are still where they fell, when we ran to the enemy. I want to bury them, I want to write to their family, which I am going to do._

_The only difference between this letter and the other two, is that I will never post your letters, Louis. I have no address, and no real Louis to write to._

_I’ll write to Ryker and Mackenzie’s families._

_Love you, Louis._

  
  


-

  
  


_October 6, .40;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_I._

  
  


-

  
  


_November 9, .40;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_Love._

  
  


-

  
  


_December 24, .40;  
Dear Louis,_

_You._

  
  


-

  
  


_January 1, .41;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_I love you._

_I didn’t think I’d make it to 1941, nor did I think I would get to spell ‘I Love You’ in its whole. I really, honestly thought I would end up five feet underground before the ‘You’; breaking news, I didn’t._

_Here’s to another year, and to another bottle of rum._

_I hope you are doing well, Louis._

_Happy new year._

  
  


-

  
  


_March 6, .41;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_Today the sky has been grey._

_A bit like your eyes when you are angry._

_It is a lovely shade._

  
  


-

  
  


_April 30, .41;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_I love you and I think about you._

  
  


-

  
  


_November 18, .41;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_Mom misses having us over for Christmas. She also said I was an idiot for leaving you, and I can’t say that I disagree. I actually smiled when I read that part, and I think I’m going crazy._

  
  


-

  
  


_December 24, .41;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_Happy birthday! I toasted to the sky._

_Louis, I love you so much it hurts._

  
  


-

  
  


_April 27, .42;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_You are my Annabel Lee._

  
  


-

  
  


_December 24, .42;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_I asked if I could go back to London. They refused._

_As Frenchies say: bon, tant pis._

_I might never see you again._

_But I want to say:_

_Je t’aime._

  
  


-

  
  


_May 10, .43;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_One of my comrades has stumbled upon those letters. He said writing two words on an entire piece of good paper is a waste. I told him to go fuck himself… and I may have punched him in the face._

_As I write to you there’s dried blood on my fingers; not mine, though. And after I fought that alpha, I sat down and wondered, what has become of me?_

_What kind of monster has war brought out within the deepest part of myself? I fight with my fists, my teeth, my feet; I have tasted raw flesh on my tongue. If you were to see me, you would hate me, you would loathe the alpha I have become._

_You would also support me, and love me despite the rotten bits and the demons lurking in my veins._

_You are my medicine, my alcohol, my blood and my four-leaf clover._

_And foolishly, I have plucked the flower free from its damp soil, I have wounded my body until I’m blue with death, I have broken the bottles of second luck._

_Louis? Ich liebe dich._

  
  


-

  
  


_July 22, .43;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_I have killed so many people, and I am afraid they will come back to torment me. If they do, I might join them on the other side. I want to have a cup of tea with the Devil._

_And guess what? I have the tea bags. Found them in a bombed grocery store. Dave got condoms; I got tea._

_It’s your favourite brand._

_I love you._

  
  


-

  
  


_October 31, .43;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_Someone has decided to play Halloween with us, except with gunpowder and knives. I got stabbed in the thigh and had to waste my entire bottle of vodka on that stupid wound (well, a-third went down my throat in the process). Despite the pain, I couldn’t help but wonder what you would have done had you been there. You would have been gentle while tending to the gash, you would have washed away the blood and nicely bandaged my limb. As it is, you are not here, so a shot of alcohol and a soil-dirty rag will do._

_There were clouds in the sky, and in my brain I could grab them and write a message out to you, because aren’t we all gazing at the same sky?_

_Do you know what it would have said, that message?_

_“I’m sorry.”_

  
  


-

  
  


_December 24, .43;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_I have thought of the first time we fell into the same bed._

_We found a frog (the unofficial, goody name we give to the Frenchs because they sound just like one when they speak) while spying on the Germans. He had a poetry book on him; Charles Baudelaire, Fleurs du Mal (Flowers of Evil). He let me read it, and I adored it. There’s a quote I keep thinking, and I’d like to share it with you;_

_“Fruits unblemished and free from every scar,_   
_Whose smooth, firm flesh invited biting kisses!”_

_If I could touch and taste your skin one last time… I would die a happy alpha._

_As it is, my mouth is full with ham and lima beans._

_Happy birthday, my love._

  
  


-

  
  


_February 27, .44;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_I want the war to be over. Every single drop of tear that falls from my eyes is a plea for relief. I don’t want cold corpses laying by my side; I want your unblemished and smooth skin. I don’t want to be woken up by the sound of gunshots; I want to startle awake because of your heartbeat. War breaks a soul in two; one is wicked, the other desperate. Agony spices up the quiet chaos going on within us soldiers._

_I wonder what you are doing. Probably reading with a cup of tea._

_I wish I were there with you._

_I love you._

  
  


-

  
  


_May 16, .44;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_I have written you a hundred and thirty-three letters. This is the thirty-fourth._

_I have written you a pile of dead words, though they all speak the truth._

_I cry so much I fear I will go blind. I’ve begun hallucinating. I see you lurking in the shadows, and if you want to know the extent of my sorrow, I almost got sniped because I thought I had seen you and started to run out of my hiding place._

_Do you think I could come back to you if I pretended to be crazy?_

_Will you come see me in a madhouse?_

_Tonight we are eating tomato spaghetti._

_They taste nothing like yours. In fact, they don’t taste at all; mud has more flavour than whatever it is they give us. But it’s better than starving, of course, and the taste is nothing a gulp of rum can’t cover._

_I love you to the moon and back, Louis._

_Do you know the moon looks spectacular in Italy? One day, I want to bring you there._

  
  


-

  
  


Joe’s eyes are drawn to him the moment he steps in the little shop. Hues of red, yellow and green reflect the sunlight and, with a sigh, he goes to the counter.

“A pack of Lucky Strike, please,” he gulps, his foot tapping incessantly on the tiled floor. Joe raises an eyebrow as he turns around, huffing when he reaches up for the green package. 

He slides the pack across the counter. “Thought you didn’t smoke?” he raises his bushy eyebrow.

With a sad twist to his lips, he gives the money over. “I thought I didn’t too.”

On that, he walks out.

  
  


-

  
  


_September 19, .44;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_There are whispers that the war is nearing its end. My opinion is as follows; it’s a load of bullshit. The war is a long, dark tunnel, and there’s no light at the end of it._

_To be honest, I am not sure, if the war ever ends, to step out of said tunnel. Because if you aren’t there to meet me halfway, how can light flood my senses again? Desperation is a cocktail, and someone tipped the glass over my head._

_I love you, Louis._

  
  


-

  
  


_December 24, .44;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_I am going to the Ardennes. I wonder how different the cold there is from our dear London; undoubtedly, my balls will fall off. I yearn for a crackling fireplace with your cold toes worming their ways underneath my thigh._

_I yearn for your love, Louis. I am a parched man and an entire brook of wine can’t quench my thirst. Only you can, Louis. My love for you has kept me alive when I thought I would remain behind with my fallen comrades, and it is for that reason that I wish to thank you. The life I had with you had been my best one; not sure I will ever be able to build another lifetime worth living._

_I have to go. This letter won’t be posted, and you shall never get it. The temptation had been great when they asked us to hand over our letters… I kept mine tucked safely underneath my pillow._

_Louis? I love you._

  
  


-

  
  


The quiet echo of tea cups hitting saucers greet him as, with his bottom lip trapped between his front teeth, he walks up to Niall’s porch. The smell of tobacco-infused smoke lingers on his clothes as he knocks on the wooden door, which swings not even a second later, Niall’s beaming face falling as his blue eyes fall on him.

“You look like shit,” Niall blinks, angling his body to the side so that he can step through. A laugh spills out from his lips, practically cocooned with hysteria. The door clicks shut and he lets Niall lean close enough, and doesn’t even flinch when the blonde omega sniffs him. “God fucking dammit, have you been smoking?”

“Here and there,” he replies while shrugging off his coat, going to the living room. “I need a cup of tea, please.”

Niall, thankfully, doesn’t say anything as he goes to the kitchen to make a cuppa, though his eyes linger on him in a way that makes his skin itch. 

He takes the steaming hot cup with a small grin, instantly taking a sip from it.

“I’d say, ‘be careful, it’s hot’, but you are heat-proof,” Niall teases, dropping his body back on the settee opposite him. He sighs and stretches. “So, how have you been?”

Outside, the weather is dreary, and reflects his mood perfectly.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully, fingers tightening around the burning porcelain — if pain is a construct of the mind, it offers a beautiful, sweet distraction from the sharp pieces of his heart prickling his eyelids. _“I don’t know,”_ he repeats as a sob is ripped out from his chest, and instantly, Niall is on him, cuddling him close.

He cries years of pinning and ache and yearning. The tears swirl down his cheeks, soak the aim of his shirt. A hand rubs his back, up and down, up and down, a rhythm that matches his heaving chest.

“He loves me,” he croaks out, pushing his face closer to Niall’s scent gland, needed to calm himself down. “He— he wrote to me so much, I read ‘em all, I didn’t sleep. Cried so much. I hate him!”

“Uh,” Niall sounds confused, though the omega indulges him. “Alright? I assume we are talking about Harry. You said he loves you? Isn’t that… good news?” 

“No!” he wails, Niall taking his cup from him before it spills over and stains the old fabric around them. “Yes,” he corrects himself, frowning. “I don’t know. I spent so long convinced Harry doesn’t love me enough that I don’t know what to do with the fact that he loves me too much, just the way I love him.”

A beat passes. “You lost me, Lou,” Niall admits gently, and sniffing, he leans back and wipes his face using the sleeves of his shirt.

“I love him,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. The words are muttered in such a fashion that they don’t leave space for doubt. He’s spent days hunched over the pile of letters, and spent hours on end reading them one by one, carving the words against the tender surface of his brain, fuelling his memories with the alpha that he kept under lock for so long, afraid he will forget.

Foolish thinking. He can’t forget the alpha, not when Harry had etched himself so deep within his soul that he’s become one with it.

“What should I do, Niall?” he asks with an edge of desperation to his tone. He’s afraid that the words that will come out of his best friend’s mouth won’t coincide with what he needs, won’t be what he wants to be told. In that case, he isn't’ sure of what he will do. Perhaps he will pack his bags and move to the fucking United States; he heard wonderful tales about the country.

“You should go get your alpha, babe,” Niall smiles, winking at him.

He smiles wetly and grabs Niall’s face, kissing him on the cheek. Joy bubbles within him as he makes a dash for the door.

Maybe whoever lounging up in the sky has answered his birthday wish, because there’s a spot in the distance, glistening like a blithering sun of hope. And he knows what it is; it’s the light at the end of the tunnel that he’s been waiting for.

  
  


-

  
  


Oxford ragworts bend to the chilled wind, and naked trees stand between red-bricked houses that, with time, have lost their once vibrant colour. Harry’s building is ordinary, a roughly-constructed block of bricks stuck to one another in a manner that inspires neither want or pleasure. But as he gazes up at one of the windows, covered by curtains that conceal the alpha from his gaze, he can still see the glimmers of light which stands out against the pitch black sky.

Harry is home.

Feet hurting from the jagged edges of doubt, he walks through the front door.

The alpha’s door is a gate to temptation, and he willingly asks for exile. Harry’s scent reaches him the moment he steps on the floor, and it makes his mouth water, spurs him forward with the need to smell it better.

Too long. It’s been too long since they’ve properly been together.

When the door opens, he’s met with the Harry he first met: profound dark circles underneath his green eyes, dry, chapped, bleeding lips, complexion pale from fatigue. A pang of guilt overtakes him, thinking of his alpha being plagued by nightmares now that they’ve gone without each other for several days. 

Or maybe the lack of sleep is due to heartbreak. He hasn’t slept much either.

“Louis?” Harry whispers, voice breaking on the word as if he weren’t sure the omega standing before him is real or only a conjured up fantasy of what he’s been yearning for days now.

“Haz,” he answers, taking a step forward, tentative, fingers clenched around the handle of his bag. 

It’s a shock to his core when strong arms wrap around his body and pulls him against a firm chest. He closes his eyes as the cold tip of Harry’s nose finds the curve of his neck.

“I- can I? I need—” Harry cuts himself short, his big hand coming up to cradle through the hair on the back of Louis’ head. All the omega can do is not briskly, dropping his bag to the ground and fisting the front of Harry’s shirt.

They cuddle for a while, allowing themselves a moment of blind peace to soak each other’s scent, the love that’s always been there but took too long to blossom. He lets himself be kissed, smiles blissfully as his skin is set on fire when Harry’s fingers caress the small of his back.

“I’m sorry,” Harry chokes out against his jaw, wet lips pressing on the skin there, as if trying to sculpt the words into Louis’ body so that they both know just how honest they are. “I’m so, so sorry for everything I’ve done and should have done. For every mistake I’ve committed, for every sorrow I’ve caused.”

He goes on his tip-toes and kisses the alpha’s temple, cradling the alpha’s strong jaw, smiling tenderly. “And I am sorry, too,” he admits, blinking away the wetness in his eyes.

It’s so odd and relieving to finally be able to hold the alpha in the way he’s always wanted - not when he is knocked unconscious by sleep, not when they’re protected by the world of dreams. He lets himself be guided to the bed, watches as Harry turns off the lights one by one and comes back to the sheets, looking more alive than ever as he gazes down at the omega in both wonder and gratefulness. 

“I’m tired,” Harry yawns, stumbling slightly as he sits down and takes off his prosthetic leg.

“C’mere,” he gestures for the alpha to come to him, which Harry does most willingly, clumsily settling underneath the blanket and instantly manoeuvring them until he is facing the wall and an arm is thrown over his waist, pulling him back against Harry’s chest.

The silence of the night rings as loud as carillon bells.

“Harry?” he whispers, the word wafting through the gloom. Pressing a kiss to the back of his neck, Harry hums.

“I’m tired too,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek harder against the saccharine-smelling pillow.

Neither of them are talking about the lack of sleep. They’re stripped naked to the bones from years of being apart, from years of ache that come crashing down on them as they lay among the sheets, the sole witnesses to their blooming relationship. Harry brings them so close to one another that sweat buds on their skins, and nothing can come between them. That feeling that overwhelms them both on that quiet wintry day of December is so natural to their souls that it’s as if they’ve never been torn apart.

  
  


-

  
  


_July 16, .44;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_There are several layers to my personality,_

_and each of your caresses, each of your kisses_

_unravel them._

  
  


-

  
  


_April 20, .45;_   
_Dear Louis,_

_I don’t know why I am writing this. The war is over, but the scars it left on my body haunt me day and night._

_Louis… the war took my fucking leg._

_I don’t feel whole anymore._

  
  


-

  
  


“You’re shivering,” are the words he first hears as he blinks his eyes open, and he glances over his shoulder, finding mossy green eyes staring right back at him.

“Warm me up then,” he grins, chuckling when Harry swipes him up into a bear-like hug. He melts into the embrace and holds his breath as their faces end up so close to one another that the tip of their noses touch. “Harry,” he whispers, silently asking — no, _begging_ — with his eyes for the distance to be closed.

He needs to taste his alpha. 

And Harry is perfectly happy to oblige.

When their lips meet, there’s the sweet chirping of cardinals filtering through the window.

Kissing the alpha hasn’t changed in six years. He lets himself be dominated by the mouth on his own, moans as a tongue strokes his lips, dive into his mouth. He cradles Harry’s face and tries to pour exactly how he is feeling into the kiss, wanting to make sparks ignite where their faces are connected. His legs fall open and Harry rests between them, exactly where he belongs.

Years of falling into the sheets together have made trivial things such as morning breath something that doesn’t even cross their minds. He grins when Harry rains pecks up his cheek, over his eyelids and progresses to his throat, hovering over his bond spot, where one day he hopes to sport the shape of Harry’s teeth.

He flushes at the thought. Maybe he’s getting ahead of himself, they’ve just found each other again, they still have so much to discuss and sort out. Their mended relationship is still hanging by a thread, and it won’t take much for it to snap in two.

With a sigh, Harry sits up, a thumb stroking his cheek. 

“I’ll make us breakfast.”

He hums and lets Harry stand up, and watches the alpha go to the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of joggers. His muscles shift deliciously, and in the frosted daylight, he can make out the white scares marring the alpha’s skin.

His heart aches as his eyes soak in the poisoned memories the war left all over Harry’s body.

“I’m going to freshen up,” he licks his lips. He stands up and goes to the bathroom door. Before closing it, he adds with pink cheeks. “Feel free to join me.”

On that, he lets the door click shut behind him and strips naked. 

He hums a little tune to himself as hot water gushes out of the shower head and onto his face, drops sliding down his skin, pooling at his feet. Steam rises and colour white the four walls confining him to the small space, and although the noise coming from the water hitting the ground, he hears it when the door is pushed open. And if he hadn’t, he would have definitely felt the gush of cold air against his heated skin as the shower door is opened and in step Harry.

He’s never really thought of how the alpha deals with the shower when he can’t shower with his fake leg and the crutches must take up too much space; but as it is, Harry leans his body against the shower wall, six-pack clenching as he holds his body up and leaves one of the crutches out of the shower, the other one secured underneath his armpit. Water slides out of the shower and onto the tiled ground, but he doesn’t care, can’t take his eyes off the wonderful alpha in front of him. He knows without having to ask or dwell deeper, that it’s taken everything in Harry to reveal himself completely to Louis’ eyes. 

Harry’s words ring like church bells in his mind. _I don’t feel whole anymore._

With a flush and careful eyes, Harry grins at him and tries to come closer.

“Hi,” Harry breathes out, breathes fogging. “Is that alright?”

He kisses Harry.

A surprised gasp falls from Harry’s lips as they fall back against the wall, and he wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, going on his tip-toes to lick into the alpha’s mouth with a need so carnal that he begins to scare himself. But Harry kisses him back with as much ardour, one arm holding him against the alpha’s chest. That way, he can feel the delicious outline of Harry’s cock pressing against his pelvis, and he would give so much to feel it drag in and out of his slickening hole. 

Too soon, maybe. He doesn’t know. He’s lost track of time, just like that.

Their lips detach and Harry is looking at him in both wonder and admiration. His big thumb caresses the corner of the omega’s mouth. The tip traces his cupid’s bow, and blinking, he licks the digit. Harry’s eyes darken.

 _“The curves of your lips rewrite history,”_ Harry murmurs, before sealing their lips into a chaste and sweet peck.

He smiles, though he can’t help but gaze sadly into those green eyes. “Harry?”

The alpha hums, caressing his back almost in veneration. 

“It’s not because you’re missing a limb that you’re not whole,” he mumbles, leaning forward until their chests are flush against one another. “It’s not because you left a part of yourself back on the battlefield that you’ve lost the capacity to feel entirely, unfiltered.”

He expects for a sad grin, or for Harry to tell him to not talk about things he doesn’t — can’t, even — understand. Instead, Harry kisses his forehead and awards him with a lopsided smile, one which makes him look a decade or so younger.

“I know,” he frowns. “I mean, at least I reckon I do. Sometimes, it’s hard not to feel like a broken person whenever I struggle doing the simplest of things. But time heals, doesn’t it? I’ll get there, one day.”

He nods at the alpha’s words and feels a tremendous amount of pride. His heart threatens to beat out of his chest as he yearns to do something. His fingers play with the coarse strands of hair on Harry’s chest.

“Can I make you feel?” he asks, wiping drops of water away from his thick eyelashes.

Harry tilts his head. “You already do.”

His lips twitch and he shakes his head.

“Not that way,” he says.

Then, without a shadow of hesitation, he drops to his knees. 

  
  


-

  
  


Tasting the alpha is heady, and hearing the sounds he draws from the alpha is a personal stroke to his omega. He takes his sweet time as he bops his head up and down Harry’s hard length, is gentle as he closes his fingers around its base, where it’s thickest because of the knot which he can’t fit between his lips. Their corners ache as he hums around the warm, pulsating cock, and he lets his digits wander to Harry’s heavy balls.

“Fuck,” Harry croaks out, fingers holding his head, gripping his hair, on the edge of painful — just the way he likes it. They know what each other like and want, so it’s easy to look up, blink his wet eyes as he gently draws his head back, the tip of Harry’s cock resting on his lips, glossing them up with gushes of precum, and sink back down without once breaking eye contact. 

Harry’s thighs shake on their side of his head, and he feels powerful as he breaks the alpha down until he’s nothing more than a moaning mess and feral green eyes.

“Missed your mouth,” Harry babbles, cupping the back of his neck and urging him to speed up. “Pretty,” he softens, lips falling open as the omega strokes the building vein. 

He dives his tongue in the little slit on Harry’s head, gathers the salty liquid and swallows it down with fervour, having missed the taste — it should be a crime, going so long without pleasuring his alpha. His inner omega is a mess, frosting at the mouth as it finally gets to do what it’s been yearning for years.

“Love your mouth,” Harry pushes his hair back, flushed body glistening wet under the bathroom light. He’s stunning. 

Louis wants more. More, more, and more.

He keeps his lips against the head of Harry’s length as he speaks. “I love your cock,” he grins, blowing against the pulsing organ that’s purple with the need for release.

He knows Harry inside out; six years hasn’t changed what they like. His words trip Harry over the edge as the alpha comes, so hard that he almost topples over but, thankfully, he rightens himself holding the top of the shower. Thick, white ribbons of cum fall into his greedy mouth, and he swallows it all, purring in satisfaction as he is drenched in his alpha’s scent, inside and out. He clenches his fingers as Harry’s knot inflates, Harry groaning, his back thudding against the shower wall.

“Are you a God?” Harry babbles, fingers stroking his neck, his jaw, his cheek. “Or a Goddess. Or maybe you’re a nymph and I’ve only gotten aware of it.”

He giggles. “Shut up,” he leans forward and kisses a scar near Harry’s belly button. 

“Never,” Harry grins, urging him up once his knot has gone down and kissing him sweetly.

They finish cleaning themselves before stepping outside. Louis’ jaw aches pleasantly as Harry wraps a big towel around him, and in turn he helps the alpha get back to the bed, where they change into clean clothes, exchanging grins and heavy glances.

“Eggs?” Harry asks, going to the kitchen and waving a spatula.

He sits on one of the stools and nods. “With tea, please.”

  
  


-

  
  


They are grocery shopping when he remembers that he still has Harry’s letters. They’re waiting on his bedside table, collecting dust and he stops with a carrot in his hand.

“I need to give you back the letters,” he blurts out, causing Harry to stop and glance back at him. The alpha frowns.

“You don’t have to,” Harry tells him, letting go of the tomato he was holding to come closer to the omega. Tenderly, he cradles Louis’ face and kisses him. Once, twice, again and again until Louis giggles. Harry looks at him, eyes soft. “They were written to you. You should keep them.”

There’s a lump in his throat, not from the need to cry, but from how much he is in love with the alpha before him.

Words might not come out of his lips, but as he goes on his tip-toes, and presses his lips against Harry’s, he hopes he can wordlessly convey the extent of his feelings that have nurtured for years in his heart.

  
  


-

  
  


There are invisible fireflies fading into the distance as he startles awake from his dream, and with his eyes widening, he understands why. Behind him, Harry is a burning furnace, and the alpha is humming and twitching among the sheets, his arm still thrown over Louis’ waist.

He sits up in panic, thinking Harry is having a nightmare. He turns around and cradles the alpha’s sweaty face, freezing as a moan leaves his lips. When he glances down, he sees that Harry’s cock is hard.

His shoulders drop in relief and he flushes, watching his alpha trying to find him again and pull him back against his firm chest. Instead, his big hand finds empty space, and the alpha frowns despite still being asleep. He gulps and makes a split decision as he straddles Harry’s hips and nests his arse on top of Harry’s hard-on.

“Wakey wakey,” he whispers, voice sleep-soft though he is wide awake as he grinds down, Harry’s pelvis going up to meet him, as if on instinct. He leans closer to Harry’s face and kisses those red pouty lips, going as far as licking a strip across the alpha’s cheek, tasting salt from the sweat. He feels heat pool in his lower belly, especially when Harry turns his face to nestle in Louis’ hands where they are resting on either side of his face. 

Harry groans and opens his eyes, blinking quickly and looking around until he focuses properly on Louis’ face mere centimeters away from him. 

“Baby,” Harry heaves out, moaning particularly loudly when the omega starts to circle his hips, rutting himself against the erected length, feeling slick wet the fabric of his undergarment. “Fuck, yes, just like that.”

The alpha cradles the back of his neck and brings their lips together, the kiss turning filthy in seconds as spit drips down their chin. Louis doesn’t waste time sucking on Harry’s tongue, drinking in the flavour of alpha and sleep and moaning as hands cradle his arse, urging him on in his movements.

“Harry,” he claws at Harry’s chest, drags his lips across the scars he can find there. “Need you, c’mon.”

“Wait,” Harry sits up and takes his face between his hands. “Are you sure?”

He nods quickly, sloppily kissing Harry’s wrist. “Please,” he whispers, tongue hanging out as Harry flips them over and crashes their lips against one another.

The alpha doesn’t waste time getting him naked, pulling his tank top off and instantly latching on his nipple.

“Oh,” he opens his mouth in blissed out shock as the alpha licks the rose buds, massaging them between his lips, sucking and kissing them. He cards his fingers through Harry’s hair and pushes the alpha’s face down his chest, wanting it down, down, _down._

Harry catches on that, smirking. “Patience, baby.”

He whines. “Been waiting for six years,” he looks down through heavy eyes. “Hurry up, _alpha.”_

Harry’s fingers still, and he hears a groan that echoes throughout his body and causes sweet-smelling slick to gush out of his hole.

“You’re a dream,” the alpha whispers as he kisses the omega’s belly button. Tongue leaves a wet path as Harry kisses his inner thighs, lovingly biting the flesh. “Been thinking about doing this for so long.”

He closes his eyes and lets himself completely go to pleasure as Harry’s breath falls on his perineum. He shivers when his knees are pushed up to his chest, revealing his most private part to the alpha’s hungry eyes.

“Pretty,” Harry breathes out, almost in veneration, as he ducks his head and drops a doting kiss right on top of his rim.

He jerks and his toes curl against Harry’s shoulder blades. _“Harry,”_ he chokes out as he feels his slick slide down to the sheets. He doesn’t expect the smack that the alpha delivers to his arse cheek, but it stings so perfectly that his back arches off the bed.

“Who am I to you, sweetheart?” Harry sternly wonders, littering love bites all over his thighs.

“Alpha,” he gasps out, fisting the blanket. “My alpha.”

Harry smiles. “Good omega.”

Then a tongue licks up his perineum, lingers on his hole, slurs up the slick. He moans as Harry twirls his tongue around, his big fingers digging into his thighs. He can feel the tip of Harry’s nose caressing the tender flesh of his balls as the alpha moves his face around, as if wanting to drench himself completely into omega slick.

Heat surrounds him, and dews of sweat slide down his body.

“Alpha,” he says, glancing down through wet, blurry eyes. “Knot me, please.”

If Harry says something along the line of _patience_ or _we’ll get to that,_ he’s sure he will flip out. He’s gone too long without a knot up his arse, and right now he needs to be turned into a silly, moaning mess and forgets about everything except for the alpha and pleasure. So he digs his nails into Harry’s shoulders. _“Please.”_

Harry straightens up, eyes as dark as black treacle, and lies over him, covering his entire body. Then, without a single word though there’s a smirk on his face, he pushes his slick-covered tongue inside of Louis’ mouth. While their tongues twirl around one another, the noises coming from their smacking lips loud in the room, he creeps his hand down his belly and slides it into Harry’s joggers, grabbing the pulsing length and beginning to stroke it. Harry’s eyes roll back and he kisses down Louis’ throat.

“In me,” Louis whispers in the alpha’s ear. He bites its shell. “Right now.”

When Harry enters him, he has to press his cheek into the pillow and squeeze his eyes shut, overwhelmed to the core as he is being filled to the brim. Harry is big enough for his hole to stretch and hurt the slightest bit — and _god,_ it’s so fucking good. Fingers grab his jaw and tilt his head, then lips are on his. His cheeks and neck are being stroked so gently, thick fingers big enough to wrap around his throat and squeeze the slightest bit — like a collar, claiming him.

Harry bottoms out, pelvis pressed to his arse, his balls; precum dripping into his belly, head of the length stroking his sweet spot as the alpha shifts his position just slightly.

It’s astonishing the amount of strength in Harry’s arms as he begins to move — in and out, in and out, and that despite missing a leg. When the omega’s feet find Harry’s legs, toes digging into his calf while the other one explores the muscular thigh, he can the shape of the scars at the tip of his toes; and the moment feels even more real. Affection renders him blind as he gazes up at his alpha; his strong, sweet, tormented Harry.

“Love you,” Harry sighs against his temple, kissing his eyebrows then the tip of his nose. They move together, and Harry’s thrusts are so powerful that the headboard hits the wall — _thump, thump, thump,_ like a heartbeat. 

The words are on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out, but Harry’s lips trap them, and when he swallows them down, he knows they won’t come out anytime soon. A tear rolls down his cheek as Harry bites his bottom lip, cradles his neck, squeezes gently, pinches his nipples — and finally, he comes, his orgasm crashing over him like a tsunami on a city. 

It doesn’t take long for Harry to follow suit, hot come spurting inside of him for so long he’s afraid he will end up bloated. He sighs in bliss and closes his eyes as Harry’s knot expands; and for a second, it fucking hurts, but then he feels content. If someone told him he died and went to heaven, he would believe them.

He’s sleepy, ready to pass out; but he is lucid enough to feel when Harry moves them around so he is straddling the alpha’s hip, sitting securely on the alpha’s fat knot, his head resting over Harry’s heaving chest. That way he can hear Harry’s heartbeat, a gentle, natural lullaby that has him dozing off. 

“Sleep, omega,” Harry mumbles in his hair, and he doesn’t need to be told twice.

His eyes sleep shut, his lips pulled into a happy grin. His body and soul reek of the alpha he loves, and the room is polluted with the ardour of their love making.

He won’t have it any other way.

  
  


-

  
  


Quitting the program has been a mutual agreement for them. Trying to weave the broken threads of their relationship again means that they spend as much time together as possible, so being in Dreamland isn’t something they want nor need. Sleeping together has stopped being a means to get better; it’s now something they do because it’s a way for them to show how much they love one another. They fall into bed as part of a routine that they’ve begun years ago, but got interrupted at one point — and it’s in moments like that that he sits down to think to himself. The outcome is a chest full of flowers, blooms of realizations.

Harry is compatible with him in a way that no one has been before. 

They are two halves of a heart.

And for the first time in forever, he thinks that breaking up has been the best thing to happen to them.

There’s a mutual respect that hasn’t been there before, and there’s also better communication when before they kept most things bottled up inside until it cracked open and sharp pieces wounded their feelings. They’re falling in love with a more mature version of one another, keeping the goods of the past and improving the crooked bits. 

Sometimes, one must stray away to find the rightful path, which is what they did when six years went by and they strengthened themselves, alongside their love for one another.

Harry broke his heart; Harry also healed it.

He shattered Harry’s misconception of what their relationship truly is; he also put the pieces back together until they shaped a better version of what they used to be. 

He can’t say the road is a smooth bit of cement. It’s the opposite, really. It’s full of bumps and pebbles and potholes. But now, they aren’t driving over it on bikes that threaten to topple over; they’re in a car, better protected, better equipped to dive into the future.

“Isabelle has invited us to Jolene’s birthday,” Harry informs him one day, when they are in the omega’s bed, reading. Louis looks up at the alpha, blinking his drooping eyelids wildly open. Harry’s been caressing his scalp, and he’s only slightly grumpy that the movement has stopped.

“Yeah?” he grins, lowering his opened book over his chest. “We should go shopping to find her a nice present.”

Harry’s beam makes his heart beat faster. “She loves blue and purple.”

“That works,” he closes his eyes, humming when lips touch his forehead: soft, unhesitant, and alive.

  
  


-

  
  


Harry has written two hundred and forty-five letters.

He buttons up his shirt as he thinks back to the words his alpha has written for him, when they were worlds apart but still gazing up at the same sky.

He must answer two hundred and forty five letters. His fingers shake as he picks up a single sheet of paper that’s folded in two, and places it over his pillow.

Harry is still asleep, the alpha’s body naturally gravitating to the omega’s side, yearning for a better taste of the sweet scent. With a soft smile, Louis bends over and presses a kiss to Harry’s forehead.

A quick glance at the clock; he has to get to the school or else he’ll be late. There’s so much he needs to do, from beginning new gouache paintings to learning new songs. 

He goes to the door and opens it, being careful not to disturb the alpha. He stops before stepping out.

“I love you, Harry,” he whispers, grinning to himself as, despite the cold, he feels warm from the cup of tea he whisked up and the lingering taste of Harry’s skin against his lips.

The door clicks shut behind him.

  
  


-

  
  


_January 6, .46;_   
_Dear Harry,_

_You wrote me two hundred and forty-five letters._

_That’s two hundred and forty-five times you have told me that you loved me._

_Harry?_

_ I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you and thank you for reading. I hope you liked it!<3
> 
> — Prompt 57: Soldier or marine Harry retires after 10 years, coming back as a more quiet, serious and reserved person. Louis bumps into Harry (his ex-boyfriend) after a long day of work as a kindergarten teacher. Louis broke up with Harry for not taking anything seriously (when they were in their twenties). Now, instead of reacting in an immature way, Harry looked three times bigger than him, which Louis loved, but was too stone-faced. Louis couldn’t read Harry anymore and that bothered him. It could be A/B/O if the author wants. Happy ending please!


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